Page 5 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

Don’t Touch me (Yet)

Kaylee

I jolt awake with a gasp, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. For one blissful moment, I don’t remember—don’t recall the cargo, the bond, the devastatingly attractive alien currently watching me from the co-pilot’s seat with unsettling intensity.

Then reality crashes back like a bad jump landing, complete with the lingering taste of synthetic air and poor life choices.

“You were dreaming,” Jhorn says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the cockpit and settle somewhere inappropriate in my lower belly. “Your fear woke me.”

Great. Even my nightmares aren’t private anymore.

And apparently, they’re contagious. I straighten in my chair, wincing as my neck protests the awkward sleeping position and my jumpsuit peels away from the pilot seat with an audible sound that would be embarrassing if I had any dignity left to preserve.

“How long was I out?”

“Three hours, seventeen minutes,” he answers immediately, with a precision that’s both unnerving and oddly impressive. “Your ship has completed sixty-one percent of necessary repairs.”

I glance at the console, confirming his assessment while trying not to notice how his voice does things to my nerve endings that really shouldn’t be happening before I’ve had coffee.

The drive’s temperature has stabilized, and Lila’s diagnostic shows steady progress on the self-repair protocols.

Still hours from a safe jump, but better than being dead in space with ApexCorp breathing down our necks.

“Any sign of pursuit?” I ask, already scanning the sensor readouts with the paranoid efficiency of someone who’s made too many enemies.

“None detected. The asteroid’s mineral composition masks our presence, as you predicted.”

There’s something in his tone—admiration mixed with what feels suspiciously like pride in my competence—that makes me uncomfortable in ways I don’t want to examine.

I ignore it, pushing myself to my feet. My muscles ache from tension and the emergency maneuvers earlier, and my stomach reminds me with a loud, undignified growl that I haven’t eaten in too long.

The sound seems to fascinate Jhorn, who tilts his head and studies me with those luminous eyes. “Your body signals distress.”

“My body signals hunger,” I correct, heat rising in my cheeks. “It’s a normal human function, not a cry for help.”

“I need food,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, but apparently nothing is private anymore.

He rises immediately, unfolding from the chair with that unsettling cat-like grace that makes me acutely aware of how every movement showcases the alien perfection of his form. “I will help.”

“No,” I snap, holding up a hand and trying not to notice how the gesture brings his attention to my fingers, or how his gaze lingers there with uncomfortable intensity. “I don’t need help making a protein pack. Just... stay here.”

I take a step toward the corridor, and the tentacle connecting us stretches, allowing me to move.

It’s the only one extended now; the others remain curled around his torso, as if he’s trying to appear less threatening.

It doesn’t work. Everything about him screams danger—his height, the alien beauty of his cobalt skin, the strange glow in his eyes that seems to intensify when he looks at me.

And yet he burned himself to protect me during the repairs. The contradiction gnaws at me as I make my way to the tiny galley, acutely aware of his gaze following my movement.

The Nomad isn’t built for comfort. The galley is barely more than a closet with a heating unit, a small sink, and storage cabinets bolted to the walls.

I rummage through the supplies, finding a protein pack that promises to taste like “Authentic Venturian Stir-Fry.” It won’t, of course.

It’ll taste like every other protein pack—vaguely savory cardboard with a chemical aftertaste that makes you question your life choices.

I tear open the package and dump it into a bowl, adding water from the recycler before shoving it into the heater. While it reconstitutes, I lean against the counter, suddenly overwhelmed by the absurdity of my situation.

I’m hiding in an asteroid field with an alien tentacle wrapped around my wrist, running from a corporation that would probably dissect us both, all because I was desperate enough to take a triple-rate job without asking enough questions.

Mother would be laughing her ass off if she knew.

Or maybe not. She did warn me about ApexCorp.

The heater chimes, and I retrieve my sad excuse for a meal. I hesitate, then grab another protein pack—“Classic Earth Noodles”—and prepare it too. I’m not even sure if he eats, or what he eats, but something tells me ApexCorp wasn’t exactly providing gourmet meals for their “assets.”

As I turn to head back to the cockpit with both bowls, I nearly collide with Jhorn, who’s standing silently in the doorway like some kind of gorgeous, alien statue.

I yelp, nearly dropping everything, my heart rate spiking in a way that has nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with suddenly being face-to-chest with all that perfectly sculpted indigo muscle.

“Stars and void! Don’t do that!” I clutch the bowls tighter, my pulse hammering against my throat. “How are you so quiet? Do you not have bones or something?”

He tilts his head, those luminous eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. “Did not intend to frighten. Sensed your distress. Came to help.”

“I wasn’t distressed, I was thinking,” I mutter, trying to edge past him in the narrow space.

It’s impossible without brushing against him, and I hesitate, unwilling to make contact.

The galley suddenly feels even smaller, filled with his presence and that alien scent of his—something like ozone and starlight that shouldn’t be appealing but absolutely is.

He seems to understand my dilemma, stepping back into the corridor to give me room.

The gesture is considerate, gentlemanly even, which is oddly charming coming from a being who could probably bench-press my ship.

The tentacle connecting us pulses slightly, a sensation I’m trying very hard to ignore and failing spectacularly.

“You require sustenance,” he observes, eyeing the bowls with the fascination of someone who’s never seen food prepared before. “Your body signals hunger-stress.”

The fact that he can sense my physical state so intimately makes my skin crawl—and other things that I’m definitely not thinking about right now.

“It’s fine. Standard courier fare.” I push past him, hyperaware of the brief contact when my shoulder brushes his arm, heading back toward the cockpit. “Do you... eat?”

“Yes. Designed to process various nutritional sources. Protein. Carbohydrates. Can survive on minimal intake if necessary.”

“Well, aren’t you convenient,” I mutter, sliding back into my chair.

The casual way he mentions being “designed” still makes me uncomfortable.

I take a bite of the reconstituted goop, grimacing at the artificial flavor that tastes like someone’s vague memory of actual food.

After a moment’s hesitation, I hold out the second bowl. “Here. If you’re hungry.”

Jhorn takes the bowl with surprising delicacy, his fingers—not tentacles—carefully avoiding contact with mine in a way that’s probably considerate but feels oddly disappointing.

He studies the steaming contents with intense curiosity, bringing his face close to inhale the scent, and I find myself watching the movement of his throat as he breathes, the way his alien features shift with concentration.

“This is... food?” He sounds genuinely puzzled, like I’ve handed him a bowl of decorative pebbles.

“Allegedly.” I can’t help the small quirk of my lips at his expression. “OOPS doesn’t exactly stock gourmet provisions. We’re more about quantity over quality. And by quality, I mean ‘won’t immediately kill you.’”

He dips one finger into the noodles with scientific precision, then brings it to his mouth. His eyes widen comically, and a shudder runs through his entire body, rippling down his tentacles like a wave of pure horror. The bond between us pulses with shock and something like horrified fascination.

“This is...” he struggles for words, his voice slightly strangled, “not optimal.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it—the first genuine one since this mess began, bubbling up from somewhere I thought had died years ago.

“Yeah, welcome to courier life. It’s all synthetic protein and artificial flavoring with a side of existential dread.

” I take another bite of my own, shrugging.

“You get used to it. Sort of. Or you develop a drinking problem. I’m still deciding which route to take. ”

Jhorn looks at me with newfound respect, as if surviving on this food is some kind of heroic feat worthy of ballads. “You are... stronger than anticipated.”

I nearly choke on my protein mush. “What, because I can stomach OOPS-grade rations? Trust me, it’s not strength—it’s desperation mixed with a complete inability to cook anything that doesn’t come pre-packaged.

” I scrape the bowl clean and toss it into the recycler.

“Though I guess after being stuck in that container eating whatever ApexCorp was feeding you, anything might taste good.”

His expression shifts, tentacles curling slightly inward—something I’m starting to recognize as discomfort. Right. Probably shouldn’t remind the alien about his imprisonment while he’s trying to eat.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “That was... insensitive.”

“Truth is not insensitive,” he says quietly, setting aside the bowl with most of its contents untouched. “They did not... feed. Stasis required no sustenance.”

The simple statement hits harder than any complaint could have. How long was he in that container? Weeks? Months? Years? The thought makes something twist in my chest.