Page 4 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

Kaylee’s resolve floods through our bond, but beneath it, I sense her exhaustion and fear.

She’s been running too long, pushing too hard.

The ship—her ship, an extension of herself—is failing around her, and she has nowhere else to go.

The vulnerability hidden beneath her competent exterior makes something protective and fierce stir in my chest.

“I need to access the manual bypass valve,” she says, more to herself than to me.

She moves to a panel in the floor and yanks it open, revealing a tangle of pipes and conduits that look like mechanical intestines.

Steam hisses from a cracked section, and the metal around it glows an angry red that reminds me unpleasantly of warning lights in sterile laboratories.

“Too hot,” I say, moving closer, catching her scent even through the heat—something uniquely her beneath the sweat and recycled air. “Will burn you.”

“I don’t have a choice,” she snaps, but I can feel her fear of the heat, the way her body recoils from the rising temperature. “If the drive overheats completely, we’re dead in space. ApexCorp will find us, and then we’re both screwed.”

Screwed. The word carries multiple meanings in her language, and I find myself wondering which definition she prefers.

She reaches for a tool on a nearby rack, her movements betraying her reluctance to get closer to the superheated components.

When she drops to her knees beside the open panel, the heat rising from below makes her face flush in a way that is far too appealing for my peace of mind.

As she leans closer, I feel her pain—the scorching air burning her lungs, the metal near her hands hot enough to blister delicate human skin.

Without thinking, I move. My tendrils unfurl from beneath the restrictive jumpsuit, three of them shooting forward to wrap around the hottest pipes, insulating them from her touch.

Another tentacle snakes around her waist, ready to pull her back if necessary, and I can’t help but notice how perfectly she fits against me, how right it feels to protect her this way.

“What are you—” she begins, then stops as she realizes what I’m doing. Her surprise flows through our bond, followed by something warmer, more complex.

“Your skin is fragile,” I explain, feeling the heat searing my tendrils but finding the pain manageable. My flesh is designed to withstand extremes she cannot. “I will hold. You fix.”

She hesitates only a moment, her gaze flicking to where my tentacle circles her waist, and I feel a flutter of awareness that has nothing to do with the bond and everything to do with proximity.

“Fine. I need to close the primary valve and reroute through the auxiliary system. Can you hold that junction steady?” She points to where two pipes meet, vibrating violently as pressure builds.

I wrap another tentacle around the junction, stabilizing it despite the burning metal.

The pain is secondary to watching her work, fascinated by her competence, the way she navigates the ship’s complex systems with intuitive understanding.

Knowledge flows from her mind to mine through our connection—the ship’s name is Nomad, an older Caravel-class transport modified for long-haul cargo runs.

The jump drive is aftermarket, powerful but temperamental, like its owner.

The coolant system has been patched three times already, held together with determination and spare parts.

“Almost got it,” she mutters, reaching deeper into the access panel. Her arm brushes against an exposed conduit, and I feel her pain like it’s my own—sharp, burning, immediate.

I react instantly, tendrils moving to shield her, pulling her back slightly while maintaining her access to the critical valves.

The motion brings her body flush against my chest, and for a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the sensation of her warmth, her scent, the way she fits against me like she was made for this purpose.

“Careful,” I murmur, my voice deeper than before, resonating with protective instinct and something far more primal. “Let me shield you.”

She doesn’t argue this time, allowing my tendrils to create a barrier between her and the hottest components while she completes the bypass.

I can feel her awareness of our proximity, the way her pulse quickens when my chest rises and falls against her back.

When the final connection clicks into place, the warning lights on the console shift from red to amber, and the temperature in the compartment begins to drop.

“Coolant bypass successful,” Lila announces with infuriating cheerfulness. “Core temperature stabilizing. Warning: Jump drive remains offline. Estimated repair time: five hours, forty-two minutes.”

Kaylee sits back on her heels, exhaustion washing through her in a wave I can feel as clearly as my own fatigue. She looks at my tendrils, still wrapped around the hot pipes, and her expression shifts to something I can’t quite identify. Concern? Guilt?

“Are you... burned?”

I withdraw my tendrils, examining them with more interest than alarm.

The skin is blistered in places, discolored in others, but already I can feel the tissue beginning to repair itself, cells regenerating with engineered efficiency.

“Will heal,” I assure her, noting how her gaze lingers on the damaged appendages. “Designed for regeneration.”

She stares at me, her expression unreadable but her emotions a complex tangle of fear, gratitude, and something warmer that makes my skin tingle. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes,” I counter simply, letting my certainty flow through our bond. “I did.”

She looks away, uncomfortable with my directness, but I catch the flush that rises in her cheeks. “We need to move. Even with the coolant system bypassed, we’re sitting targets here. I need to get us to a hiding place until the drive is repaired.”

I nod, following as she returns to the cockpit, admiring the efficient grace of her movements.

The tentacle connecting us seems less restrictive now, stretching more easily as she moves ahead of me.

Perhaps the bond is strengthening, adapting to our shared experiences.

Or perhaps she is simply accepting its presence, however reluctantly.

The cockpit is small, designed for a single pilot with perhaps one passenger.

I fold myself into the co-pilot’s seat, my tendrils curling close to avoid touching the delicate controls, though part of me is tempted to explore the ship’s systems more thoroughly.

Kaylee slides into her chair with practiced ease, her hands moving over the console in a familiar dance that speaks of years of experience.

“Lila, give me options,” she says, her voice taking on that crisp, professional tone again. “Where can we hide until the drive is fixed?”

“Scanning,” the AI responds with maddening calm. “Detecting asteroid field at coordinates 227-mark-43. Composition suggests high metallic content. May provide sensor shielding.”

“How far?”

“Seventeen minutes at current sub-light capacity.”

Kaylee nods, already adjusting course with movements that are almost sensual in their precision. “It’ll have to do. Any sign of pursuit?”

“Negative. However, ApexCorp vessels are equipped with advanced tracking technology. Probability of detection within six hours: seventy-eight percent.”

I feel Kaylee’s spike of fear, quickly suppressed beneath layers of determination and focus. She is accustomed to danger, to being hunted. The realization makes something twist painfully inside me—protective rage mixed with admiration for her strength.

“They want me,” I say quietly, studying her profile in the soft glow of the instrument panels. “Not you. If you return me—”

“Not happening,” she cuts me off, her voice hard as vacuum-forged steel. “I don’t hand people over to corporations, even weird tentacle people who’ve attached themselves to me without permission.”

The casual way she says “tentacle people” should probably offend me. Instead, it makes me want to smile, though I’m not entirely sure why.

“Not... people,” I correct her, the words coming from somewhere deep, some programming I can feel but not fully access. “Asset. Property of ApexCorp.”

She turns to look at me, her expression fierce enough to make my dual hearts skip beats. “Bullshit. You talk. You think. You just burned yourself to help me fix my ship. That makes you a person, not property.”

Her certainty flows through our bond, strong and unwavering and absolutely intoxicating. She believes what she says, even as she resents my presence. The contradiction is... confusing. Warming. Arousing in ways I don’t fully understand.

“Why help me?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Bond was accident. I am... burden to you.”

She sighs, returning her attention to the controls, but I catch her sideways glance, the way her gaze lingers on my hands before she looks away.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve spent enough time in the Fringe to know what corporations like ApexCorp do to their ‘assets.’ Maybe because I’ve been running from people who think they own me too, in a way.

” She shrugs, and the motion draws my attention to the line of her shoulders, the graceful curve of her neck.

“Or maybe because you’re literally attached to me, and I don’t have much choice. ”

The last part is said with a wry twist of her lips that I somehow recognize as humor, though the concept feels new and strange. The expression transforms her face, makes her look younger, less guarded. I find myself wanting to make her smile like that again.

“Will protect you,” I promise again, the words feeling right, necessary, primal. “From them. From all threats.”

“Yeah, well, right now we need to protect each other,” she mutters, guiding the ship toward the asteroid field with movements that are part skill, part artistry. “And that means finding a place to hide while the drive cools down.”

As we approach the asteroid field, I watch her hands on the controls, the confident way she navigates the ship through the dangerous debris.

Her mind is focused, calculating trajectories and adjustments with instinctive skill.

Through our bond, I can almost feel the ship as an extension of her body, responding to her touch like a living thing. Like I respond to her touch.

“There,” she says, pointing to a cluster of larger asteroids. “That formation should hide our heat signature. And that big one has a crater we can nestle into.”

She guides the Nomad into position, the ship’s thrusters firing in short, controlled bursts as we settle into a deep impact crater on the asteroid’s surface. The maneuver is flawlessly executed, and I find myself admiring her skill with an intensity that borders on reverence.

The ship powers down to minimal life support, and the cockpit dims to emergency lighting that casts everything in soft amber hues. In the gentle glow, Kaylee looks ethereal, beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight with unfamiliar emotion.

“Now we wait,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a sigh that makes me acutely aware of how the movement emphasizes her curves. “And hope they don’t find us before the drive is fixed.”

I sense her exhaustion, bone-deep and dragging at her consciousness. She has been running too long, pushing too hard. The emergency jump, the repairs, the constant fear—all have taken their toll on her remarkable but ultimately fragile human frame.

“Should rest,” I suggest, my voice soft in the dimness. “Will watch. Will alert if danger comes.”

She looks at me, suspicion warring with fatigue, and I catch her gaze traveling over my form in the low light.

The jumpsuit has stretched and torn in places during our repair work, offering glimpses of my indigo skin beneath.

“How do I know you won’t... I don’t know, take over the ship? Try to return to ApexCorp?”

The suggestion is so absurd that I blink at her in confusion. “ApexCorp is... pain. Cold. Darkness.” The fragments of memory make me shudder—sterile laboratories, harsh voices, the agony of being shaped and reshaped according to someone else’s design. “Would never return. Never bring you to them.”

Never bring harm to what is mine, I think but don’t say aloud. Not yet. She’s not ready for that level of honesty.

She studies me for a long moment, and I feel her assessment through our bond—noting my apparent sincerity, the way my tendrils curl protectively rather than aggressively, the genuine distress that shadows my features when I mention ApexCorp.

Finally, she nods slowly. “Lila will wake me if anything changes. And you...” She gestures to the tentacle still wrapped around her wrist, her expression stern but lacking real heat.

“This better still be the only thing touching me when I wake up.”

“Only this,” I promise, though the restriction makes me want to growl with frustration. “Only what is necessary for bond.”

For now, I add silently. But someday, perhaps, she will want more than necessity. Someday, she might want choice.

She nods again, then closes her eyes, her body slumping slightly in the chair as tension begins to drain away.

I watch as her breathing slows, her features softening in the dim light.

Even in rest, she remains alert, her body poised for flight or fight.

I wonder how long she has lived this way, always ready, never truly at peace.

The thought makes something fierce and protective stir in my chest. She deserves rest. She deserves safety. She deserves to be cherished, not hunted.

Through our connection, I feel the moment she slips into sleep, her consciousness dimming like a light turned low but not extinguished.

Her dreams flicker at the edges of my awareness—fragments of memory and fear, ships and stars and running, always running.

But also warmth, connection, the phantom sensation of tendrils wrapped around her in protection rather than restraint.

I settle deeper into my seat, tendrils curled protectively around my body, the one connected to her wrist pulsing gently with our shared life force.

My purpose is clear, even if my memories are not.

I will protect her. I will keep her safe.

I will earn her trust, her acceptance, and perhaps, eventually, something more.

The ship hums quietly around us, systems running at minimal power. Outside, the void of space stretches endlessly, stars scattered like distant hopes across the darkness. I do not know what I am, not fully. I do not know what I was made for, beyond the vague certainty of “connection” and “service.”

But I know what I choose, here and now. I choose her. My anchor. My light. My beautiful, stubborn, magnificently alive Kaylee.

And I will burn before I let anyone extinguish her—or the growing flame of something precious kindling between us in the darkness.