“Well,” I say, turning back to my coffee, “tonight you’re not alone. We’re both stuck here until this storm passes.”
Something that might be hope flickers across his features. “I do not wish to impose—”
“You’re not imposing. You’re wounded, it’s Christmas Eve, and there’s a blizzard outside. Basic human decency says I feed you and make sure you don’t die on my floor.”
“Thank you, Fiona.”
The way he says my name makes heat pool low in my stomach. Careful, like he’s been practicing it.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even seen this ship of yours. For all we know, it’s completely fried and we’re both wastingour time.”
“Perhaps. But I have heard about your reputation for working miracles with determination and spare parts.” His voice drops to something almost intimate. “I have considerable faith in your abilities.”
The absolute confidence in his tone makes heat curl through my chest. When was the last time someone had that kind of faith in me?
“We’ll see,” I manage, turning back to my coffee before I do something stupid like ask what other abilities he has faith in.
Outside, the storm continues to rage, but inside my garage feels smaller somehow. More intimate. Like the blizzard has created a pocket of space and time where impossible things can happen.
Where seven-foot aliens can crash into your life and look at you like you’re the answer to every question they’ve been afraid to ask.
I steal another glance at Ja’war, taking in the way the Christmas lights play across his alien features, the careful way he cradles his injured arm, the intensity in those winter-blue eyes when he thinks I’m not looking.
A courier, he said. Flying alone between the stars, carrying critical supplies to people who need them.
The most romantic job anyone’s ever described to me.
Also the most dangerous, judging by the bullet wound.
I’m still trying to decide what to make of this impossible alien when I catch him looking at me with an expression so full of quiet gratitude that it makes my breath catch.
Maybe Christmas Eve doesn’t have to be about what I don’t have, I think, turning back to my coffee before I do something we’ll both regret.
Maybe this year it can be about seven-foot aliens who crash into your life and look at you like you’re capable of miracles.
4
Christmas Morning Confessions
Ja’war
Iwaketothescent of her everywhere.
It saturates the air around me, clings to the blanket she gave me last night, rises from the couch cushions beneath my body like a drug designed specifically to drive Xarian males insane. Motor oil and coffee,yes, but underneath—something warm and essentially Fiona that makes my claiming instincts roar to life before I’m fully conscious.
The Christmas tree lights still twinkle in the corner, casting rainbow patterns across the ceiling. Outside, the storm has finally passed, leaving behind a pristine white landscape that glitters in the pale morning sun. Christmas morning. My first Christmas morning, and I’m spending it on Fiona Davis’s couch with my body wound tight as a spring and my mind cataloguing every detail of her sanctuary.
From the small kitchen area comes the sound of movement—soft footsteps, the gentle clink of dishes, the hiss of coffee brewing. She’s awake. She’s making breakfast. She’s moving through her morning routine just meters away, and the domesticity of it hits me like a physical blow.
This is what I’ve been watching from afar for three winters. This quiet competence, this peaceful efficiency, this woman creating warmth and sustenance in her carefully ordered world. Except now I’m inside it, surrounded by it, breathing it in with every careful inhale.
I sit up slowly, testing the movement of my injured shoulder. The injury has receded overnight—Xarian healing, once properly cleaned and bandaged, works quickly. The wound still aches, but it’s manageable now. What’s not manageable is the way my body responds to her proximity, to the knowledge that she’s just around the corner wearing... what?
The question tortures me as I fold the blanket with military precision, trying to impose order on my chaotic thoughts. Does she sleep in practical clothing like everything else in her life? Soft cotton that would cling to her curves? Does her hair escape its ponytail while she sleeps, falling loose around her shoulders?
Stop. These thoughts lead nowhere productive.
But as I stand and move toward the kitchen, drawn by the scent of brewing coffee and something rich and savory that makes my mouth water, I catch sight of her and every rational thought evaporates.
