“Much. Thank you.”
She nods and hands me a mug, her fingers brushing mine as I accept it. The contact is brief, innocent, but it sends electricity racing up my arm.
“So,” she says, settling onto the stool across from me with her own coffee. “Christmas morning breakfast with an alien courier. Definitely not on my bingo card for this year.”
“Christmas morning breakfast with the woman I—” I stop abruptly, horrified by what I almost revealed.
Her eyebrows rise. “With the woman you what?”
“With the most skilled mechanic in the region,” I finish lamely.
She studies me over her coffee mug, those intelligent hazel eyes too perceptive for comfort. “Right. The mechanic.”
We eat in relative silence, but I can feel her watching me, cataloguing my reactions to the food, the coffee, the domestic intimacy of sharing breakfast. The bacon is perfectly crispy, the coffee strong enough to wake the dead, and the simple pleasure of eating a meal prepared with care makes something warm and dangerous unfurl in my chest.
This is what I’ve been missing. Not just the food, but the connection, the quiet companionship, the knowledge that someone took time to prepare something nourishing just for you.
“This is wonderful,” I tell her, meaning it completely.
“It’s just bacon and eggs.”
“Perhaps. But it is prepared with care, shared in warmth.” I meet her eyes. “On my worlds, such meals are reserved for family. For those who matter.”
Something softens in her expression. “You really haven’t done the family holiday thing, have you?”
“Xarian culture has observances, but courier work requires spending most holidays in transit or at frontier stations.” The admission comes easier than I expected. “I have not shared a holiday meal in... many years.”
“That’s really sad.”
The simple statement, delivered without pity but with genuine sympathy, makes my chest tight. “It is the life I chose.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t be lonely.”
The understanding in her voice nearly undoes me. “No. It does not.”
She’s quiet for a moment, sipping her coffee, and I find myself memorizing the picture she makes in the soft morning light. Auburn hair catching gold highlights, hazel eyes thoughtful, the curve of her mouth as she contemplates whatever thoughts are chasing through her sharp mind.
“Can I ask you something?” she says finally.
Wariness prickles along my spine. “Of course.”
“Your courier route that brought you here. How often does it pass through this area?”
The question is casual, but there’s something underneath it—a sharpness that suggests she’s fishing for information. My heart rate spikes.
“Occasionally. When cargo requires transport to this sector.”
“Occasionally meaning...?”
“Perhaps once per year. Sometimes less.” The lie tastes bitter, but the truth would expose everything.
She nods slowly. “And you just happened to crash near the best mechanic in the region?”
“I researched local resources before landing. Your reputation extends beyond—” I stop, realizing too late what I’ve revealed.
“My reputation extends beyond what, exactly?” Her voice sharpens. “Beyond the county? The state? How exactly does a courier who’s only passing through occasionally know enough about my reputation to seek me out specifically?”
My mouth goes dry. The careful lie is unraveling faster than I can construct new ones.
