At the way he watches me move around my own kitchen, like every gesture is worth memorizing.
“How do you take your coffee?” I ask.
“However you prefer to prepare it.”
I glance at him. “That’s not an answer. Strong? Weak? Sweet?”
“I...” He looks almost embarrassed. “I have never had coffee.”
“Never?” The admission stops me cold. “What do you drink?”
“Xarian dietary preferences tend toward nutrient supplements. I have not had occasion to try many human beverages.”
There’s something oddly endearing about his careful honesty. “Well, then. We’re starting you off right.” I pour two cups, making his weaker than my usual engine oil strength. “Fair warning—coffee is an acquired taste.”
I carry both cups over, and he accepts his with both hands like I’m handing him something precious.
“It’s just coffee, Ja’war.”
“Perhaps. But it is the first coffee anyone has ever offered me.” He looks down at the dark liquid, then back at me. “That makes it considerably more than ‘just’ anything.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. He takes a careful sip, and I watch his expression change as he processes the unfamiliar taste.
“It is...” He pauses, searching for words. “Complex. Bitter, but with underlying warmth.”
“Not bad for a first-timer.”
I retrieve the pizza and put a slice on a plate for him. “More cultural exploration. Pizza. The cornerstone of American cuisine.”
He examines the slice with scientific curiosity, and I find myself oddly invested in his reaction. When he tastes it, something shifts in his expression.
“The combination of flavors is... unexpected,” he says thoughtfully. “And there is something else...”
“Something else?”
“Xarian senses are more acute than human. I can detect emotional resonance in prepared food.” Those blue eyes meet mine. “This tastes like someone who has spent years taking care of herself, but who offered this meal because she genuinely wanted to provide comfort.”
The words do something complicated to my chest. “That must make dinner parties interesting.”
“It makes meals shared with those we care about extraordinarily meaningful.” His voice drops lower, becomes more intimate. “This is the finest meal I have had in three winters.”
The statement hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack. Because if my hastily reheatedpizza rates as his finest meal in three years, what does that say about what he’s feeling?
What I’m feeling?
“Ja’war,” I say carefully, “when you say courier work is solitary...”
“I spend months alone between assignments. I deliver supplies to frontier colonies, research stations, places where human contact is rare.” There’s something vulnerable in his voice now. “I have not shared a meal with anyone in longer than I care to admit.”
The honest sincerity in his voice cuts straight through every defense I’ve built. “So you’ve been what, flying solo for years?”
“Yes. Courier work is solitary by nature.”
“Sounds lonely.”
Something shifts in his expression—vulnerability, carefully hidden loneliness. “It can be.”
The admission does something warm to my chest. There’s something about this careful, formal alien who flies between the stars alone that tugs at me.
