Page 30 of Alien Attachment
“From exploring what our bond might offer?” I suggest gently. “The only thing stopping us is your choice. Your comfort level. Your consent.”
The word hangs between us, weighted with possibility. Through our connection, I feel her wrestling with desire and fear, curiosity and caution. She wants to touch me again—I can sense it like hunger in her thoughts—but she’s terrified of where that touch might lead.
“This is crazy,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move away. If anything, she shifts slightly closer. “You’re a unique alien. I’m human. We could be genetically incompatible.”
“I was designed for compatibility,” I remind her gently. “With multiple species. Extensive testing was... conducted.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Extensive testing?”
“ApexCorp was very thorough in their research.” I allow one tendril to extend again, stopping just short of touching her. “Would you like me to demonstrate compatibility?”
The question stops her breathing entirely. Through our bond, I feel her imagining what such a demonstration might entail, and the spike of arousal that accompanies those thoughts nearly overwhelms my own control.
Only then does Kaylee’s rigid posture collapse, her shoulders slumping as she leans forward, face buried in her hands. Through our bond, I feel her pain like physical wounds—the cut on her arm throbbing despite my treatment, bruises from the bounty hunter’s rough handling, and beneath these surface hurts, a deeper wound: the knowledge that there is nowhere truly safe, no haven that ApexCorp cannot reach.
“I...” she starts, then stops. Starts again. “We shouldn’t.”
“No,” I agree readily. “We absolutely should not. You are exhausted, injured, and emotionally vulnerable. I am bound to you by forces neither of us fully understands. This is precisely the wrong time for intimate exploration.”
“Exactly,” she says, but her gaze is fixed on my extended tendril. “Terrible timing.”
“Catastrophically poor judgment,” I confirm, allowing the tendril to drift closer to her hand.
“Completely inappropriate,” she whispers, her fingers twitching toward mine.
“Utterly inadvisable,” I murmur, as her fingertip hovers just above my tendril.
The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility and terrible timing. Through our bond, I feel her wrestling with desire and duty, need and common sense.
“Kaylee,” I say softly. “You require rest. Medical attention.”
She doesn’t look up. “What I require is a miracle.” Her voice is muffled against her palms. “Or a drink. Preferably both. And maybe a new identity, a new ship, and a different universe where corporations don’t breed aliens for fun and profit.”
“I fear I can only assist with the medical attention,” I say, settling near her with careful deliberation. “My universe-altering capabilities are somewhat limited.”
“Shocking,” she mutters, but I catch the faint thread of amusement through our bond.
Without speaking, I extend several tendrils—not to touch her directly, but to create a gentle barrier around her. They form a living cocoon of soft, pulsing light, emanating subtle warmth that pushes back the cold darkness of space. The bioluminescent patterns shift through calming blues and gentle golds, responding to my desire to soothe rather than overwhelm or seduce.
I begin to hum, the same melody that drew her to release me from the medbay—a wordless song that speaks of protection, of safe harbors in violent storms, of light persisting in darkness. But this time, I add new harmonies, notes that reflect what I’ve learned about her through our bond. Her courage. Her loneliness. Her hidden softness beneath layers of defensive cynicism.
At first, Kaylee remains rigid, her back a tense line of resistance. But as the melody continues, as the warmth of my tendrils creates a sanctuary around her without demanding touch, I feel her begin to yield. Her breathing deepens. Her shoulders lower fractionally. The sharp edges of her fear soften, not disappearing but becoming bearable.
“You’re doing it again,” she says quietly, though she doesn’t move away from the warmth.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you make everything feel... safer. Less hopeless.” She finally looks up, meeting my eyes. “How do you do that?”
“I exist for you,” I say simply. “Your wellbeing is my primary function. When you hurt, I feel it. When you heal, I am... content.”
She studies my face, searching for deception, for the artificial responses of sophisticated programming. Through our bond, I let her feel the truth of my words—not just the programmeddevotion, but the choice behind it, the genuine care that has grown beyond my original design.
“That’s terrifying,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I agree. “It is. For both of us.”
Almost imperceptibly, she leans back, allowing the barrier of my tendrils to support her weight. Not quite touch, but acceptance of my presence, my protection. Through our bond, I feel her exhaustion pulling her toward sleep, her mind too weary to maintain its defenses.
