“How did you plan to spend it?”
I glance up at him, surprised by the genuine curiosity in his voice. “Honestly? Probably would have worked on Mrs. Gracey’s Ford, drunk too much coffee, and fallen asleep watching old movies. Very exciting stuff.”
“That sounds... peaceful.”
There’s something wistful in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. “What about you? Do Xarian's celebrate anything like Christmas?”
“We have... observances. Times when families gather, share warmth during the cold seasons.” He pauses. “I have not participated in years.”
“The solitary courier life?”
“Yes.”
I finish securing the bandage and step back to examine my work. “There. That should keep you from bleeding out on my Christmas Eve. Though I have to say, if you were going to crash-land on Earth, you picked a hell of a night for it.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience.”
I almost laugh at his formal tone. “Inconvenience? I’ve gone from ‘lonely Christmas Eve with takeout’ to ‘treating gunshot wounds on an alien courier carrying life-saving medications.’ This is either the best or worst Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.”
“Which do you think it is?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at him—really look at him—taking in the careful way he holds himself, the quiet dignity despite being wounded and stranded, the way those winter-blue eyes seem to see right through me.
“Ask me tomorrow,” I say finally. “After I’ve seen this ship of yours.”
“Thank you.” The gratitude in his voice is so genuine it makes my chest tight. “I am in your debt.”
“Let’s call it professional courtesy.” I start cleaning up supplies. “So where’s this ship of yours?”
“Hidden in the forest, approximately fifteen kilometers north. Cloaked from your detection systems.”
“And you think I can fix alien technology with whatever’s lying around my garage?”
“I have heard about your work. Your reputation for solving impossible problems.” Those blue eyes meet mine. “If anyone can repair what others would consider hopeless, it is you.”
The words hit something deep in my chest, in places I’ve kept carefully protected. There’s something devastating about the quiet faith in his voice.
“We’ll see. But it’s going to have to wait until this storm clears.” I glance toward the window where snow is still pelting the glass sideways. “I’m not hiking through a blizzard, even for cosmic medical emergencies. We’ll be lucky if this lets up by tomorrow night.”
“The weather should improve by tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow’s Christmas.” I pause, realizing something. “You know, I just patched up a seven-foot alien in my garage, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Ja’war Frixt.”
“Fiona Davis.” I pause. “Though I guess introductions are kind of pointless when you’re bleeding all over someone’s garage.”
“Perhaps. But I prefer to know the name of someone who is saving my life.”
“Saving your life might be a bit dramatic. I’m just really good with antiseptic.” I head toward the small kitchen area. “Try not to bleed on anything else while I’m cooking. This is my good furniture.” I gesture at his battered office chair. “And by good, I mean it’s the only furniture that doesn’t have oil stains.”
Behind me, I hear what might be laughter—rich, warm, genuinely amused. It transforms his careful formality into something much more appealing.
“I will do my best, Fiona Davis.”
The way he says my name makes heat pool low in my stomach. Which is probably not the appropriate response to having an injured alien in my garage.
But as I measure coffee and reheat pizza, I catch myself stealing glances at him in the microwave’s reflection. At the way the Christmas lights play across his pale skin. At the careful way he moves, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible despite being built like a linebacker.
