So maybe I flash him a bit of a saucy smile. Maybe I am flirting a bit with him. It’s harmless, and I have to admit that I kind of like the guy. He’s actually talking to me, rather than just staring at me creepily or demanding I go with him to meet his parents. Aliens do not seem to get the concept of dating at all, it seems. At least the ones I’ve come across.
His skin darkens—a deep burgundy flush creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. His tail twitches against the chair leg. “I… no. I wouldn’t know how. Not on purpose.”
The admission hangs between us, so honest it makes my chest tight.
“Wait, really?” I sit up straighter. “Come on, every kid gets into some kind of mischief. Sneaking extra dessert, staying up past bedtime, something.”
He shakes his head slowly, his attention dropping to his pumpkin. “My family is military. Old bloodlines, warrior traditions. My father is a decorated general, my older brothera celebrated combat specialist.” His voice goes quieter. “Such things weren’t tolerated. We were raised to be orderly, to follow instructions precisely. Creativity was… discouraged.”
The way he says it—so matter-of-fact, like he’s describing the weather—makes my heart ache.
“How old were you when you first stepped out of line?” I ask softly.
His small horns shift as he tilts his head, considering. “I suppose… coming here. To this hotel.” He meets my eyes, and there’s something vulnerable in his gaze. “This is the most rebellious I’ve been in my entire life.”
Oh.
Oh.
I look at him—really look at him. The careful way he holds himself, the precise movements, the concern about mess and order. It isn’t snobbery or pretension. It’s survival. It’s what he’s been taught, what has been drilled into him his whole life.
And here he is, sitting at a pumpkin carving station, about to shove his hands into vegetable guts, trying something new simply because… why? It’s certainly not because he wants to; he holds himself away from the pumpkin like it might eat him instead. Is it because I invited him?
The thought makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Well,” I say, reaching for his immaculately scraped pumpkin. “Then we’d better make your first act of rebellion count.”
Before he can protest, I plunge my hand into the center of his pumpkin and pull out a final clump of seeds and strings he’d somehow missed in all his careful scooping.
A drop of pumpkin goop lands on his hand. Not much at all, to be honest, but enough that if he’s a germaphobe, he’d definitely be freaking out about now.
He stares at it like it’s a live grenade.
“There. Now you’re officially messy. We can be wicked together.”
Slowly, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not a polite smile. A real one that crinkles at the corners of his dark-colored eyes. Not quite black, I realize, but a very dark brown. But the longer I look, the more subtle flecks of amber I see. I could get lost staring into them.
“I suppose I am,” he says quietly.
I clear my throat and step back. The air between us feels heavy. Charged. My casual flirtation suddenly feels… intense. Something more. Distracting myself, I grab my carving knife. “Come on, let’s finish these things. I want to see what a military-raised Volscian considers a proper jack-o’-lantern.”
We carve in silence, but it feels different now. Something has shifted between us.
I keep glancing at him, watching the concentration on his face, the careful way he works. Every so often, he looks up and catches me watching, and his skin darkens in a burgundy flush.
And I realize something: I’m having fun. Actual, genuine fun. Not the kind of fun I try hard to achieve around the other girls when they are all laughing and merry. This is real.
When was the last time I felt like this? When have I last relaxed enough to share embarrassing childhood stories, to get messy, to just be?
Not since before.
Ever since I woke up aboard that spaceship, surrounded by other women with no idea how I got on board… I’ve struggled to just relax. I certainly haven’t found myself happy like everyone else. I’ve felt like a shell, always missing something. It’s been so hard to connect with anyone, even if they’ve experienced the same thing. I haven’t even been able to talk about it. And talking to some alien about my non-existent problem and loneliness isout of the question, not when they were the reason I ended up out here.
I glance across at Khatak. He’s got me talking. He’s got me smiling and even genuinely laughing.
The thought that an alien has this much control over me should scare me, should trigger that familiar need to pull back, to retreat to safe ground. But sitting here, covered in pumpkin guts, listening to Khatak’s careful questions about human traditions, watching emotions play openly across his face—no masks, no hidden agendas, just genuine curiosity and growing comfort—I don’t want to pull back. He’s not trying to trick me. He’s not trying to get something from me.
And so, I find that I want to stay right here.
