“OOPS maintains databases of skilled technicians—”
“Bullshit.” She sets down her coffee mug with deliberate care. “There are dozens of mechanics between here and wherever you supposedly crashed. But you came straight to me. In a blizzard. Bleeding and barely conscious, but somehow you knew exactly where to find Fiona Davis.”
“I...” The words die in my throat because there is no explanation that doesn’t reveal everything.
“And another thing,” she continues, her voice gaining that dangerous edge I’ve heard her use with difficult customers. “You knew I’d be alone on Christmas Eve. Not just small town patterns—you specifically said I usually spend this evening alone. How do you know my personal habits, Ja’war?”
My mouth goes dry. “OOPS couriers are required to study local cultures when delivering to inhabited worlds.”
“Right. Cultural studies.” Her tone is becoming skeptical. “So when you mentioned that I usually spend Christmas Eve alone, that was just... educated guessing?”
I freeze with my coffee mug halfway to my lips. The words had slipped out last night during our conversation about timing,spoken without thought because after three years of watching her annual solitude, it felt like established fact rather than secret knowledge.
“I... small settlements often have predictable patterns...”
“Ja’war.” Her voice is quiet, but there’s steel underneath it. “How did you know I spend Christmas Eve alone?”
The moment stretches between us, loaded with the weight of three years of secrets. I can see her putting pieces together, her sharp mind working through inconsistencies in my story. The careful way I’ve spoken about this area, my knowledge of local folklore, the timing of my arrival.
The way I say her name like I’ve been practicing it.
Because I have been.
“Fiona,” I begin, but she holds up a hand.
“The truth. Please.”
I set down my coffee mug with hands that want to shake. Three years of careful distance, of watching from shadows, of protecting her without her knowledge. Three years of falling in love with a woman who doesn’t know I exist.
And now she’s looking at me with growing suspicion and hurt, waiting for me to admit that everything about our meeting is a lie.
“I have not been entirely honest with you,” I say quietly.
“No kidding.” Her voice is flat, carefully controlled. “So let’s try again. How long have you really been coming here?”
The weight of truth feels impossibly heavy. But the alternative—more lies, more deception—would destroy any chance of the trust I desperately need from her.
“Three winters,” I admit. “I have been altering my courier routes to pass through this system for three winters.”
She goes very still. “Three winters. You’ve been coming here for three years.”
“Yes.”
“And during these visits...”
“I observed. I learned. I ensured that travelers lost in storms found their way to safety.” The words come out in a rush, desperate to explain before she can process the full implications. “I never approached your home, never interfered with your life directly. I simply... watched.”
The silence that follows is deafening. I can see her working through it—three years of the Jack Frost legend, three years of mysterious rescues, three years of a creature in the shadows that turned out to be an alien with an obsession.
“You’ve been watching me.” Her voice is deadly quiet. “For three years, you’ve been watching me specifically.”
“Yes.”
“That’s—” She stops, runs a hand through her hair, then looks at me with an expression I can’t read. “That’s either the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me, or the most terrifying.”
“I hope for the former.”
“Yeah, well, jury’s still out on that.” She stands abruptly, pacing to the window and staring out at the snow-covered landscape. “Three years. Three years of secret observation.”
