Page 7 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)

The Space Between Us

Kaylee

I lead Jhorn into the medbay, my heart hammering as I prepare to do something that will probably haunt me later.

The compartment is barely large enough for two people, making every movement an exercise in not brushing against him.

Which is harder than it should be, considering how much space his presence seems to take up.

“Lie down on the scanner,” I instruct, gesturing to the narrow examination bed while trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll run a full bio-scan.”

He complies without question, stretching his large frame on the bed with fluid grace.

The movement draws my attention to the way his jumpsuit strains across his chest, and I quickly look away, focusing on the control panel.

The tentacle connecting us extends to accommodate the distance as I move to the scanner controls.

“This will take a few minutes,” I say, activating the scanner and watching as blue light passes over his body. “Just... stay still.”

I edge toward the door, my pulse quickening with each step. “I need to check something in the corridor.”

I step outside before he can respond, slapping the door control. It slides shut with a hiss, and I quickly override the lock, sealing him inside. The tentacle connecting us stretches uncomfortably through the small gap I’ve left in the door, but the distance is just within tolerance.

A wave of confusion hits me through the bond, quickly followed by understanding, then hurt so profound it makes my knees buckle. I lean against the opposite wall, breathing hard, fighting the foreign emotions flooding my system like a tide of alien sorrow.

“Kaylee?” His voice comes through the intercom, steady despite the turmoil I can feel raging within him. “You have locked me in.”

“I need space,” I say, my voice tight with guilt and desperation. “I can’t think with you constantly... there. Just stay put for a while. I’ll let you out later.”

There’s a long pause. Then, softly: “As you wish.”

The wave of loneliness that follows nearly brings me to my knees.

It’s vast, echoing, like the memory of an endless void—a solitude so complete it feels like death itself.

Cold and dark and empty in ways that make me want to claw at the walls just to feel something real.

I slam my mental defenses against it, pushing away from the wall and stumbling toward the cockpit like I’m fleeing a crime scene.

Which, in a way, I am.

“Lila, monitor the medbay,” I order as I collapse into the pilot’s chair, my hands shaking as I grip the armrests. “Alert me if he tries to break out.”

“Acknowledged,” the AI responds with her usual maddening calm. “Subject appears to be complying with containment. No evidence of escape attempts. However, I should note that his bio-readings indicate significant emotional distress.”

“I don’t need a psychological profile, Lila. Just make sure he stays put.”

“Understood.”

Of course he’s not trying to escape. He’s doing exactly what I asked, even though it’s causing him pain.

The thought brings a fresh surge of guilt that I ruthlessly suppress.

I need this time alone, this space to think without his constant presence, his overwhelming emotions bleeding into mine like an open wound.

I pull up the ship’s status reports, focusing on the mundane details of fuel levels and repair progress with desperate intensity.

The drive is at seventy-eight percent, the stabilizer repairs holding well.

We should be able to jump in another hour or two.

Then it’s just a matter of finding somewhere to hide, somewhere I can figure out how to break this bond and get my life back.

If that’s even possible.

The thought sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the ship’s recycled air.

What if we’re stuck like this forever? What if I can never be alone again, never have privacy, never escape the constant awareness of another being’s emotions, thoughts, needs?

What if every time I try to push him away, I feel that devastating loneliness that makes my own isolation look like a luxury vacation?

I rest my forehead against the cool metal of the console, suddenly exhausted beyond words.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a simple delivery run—dangerous, yes, but straightforward.

Get in, drop the cargo, get paid, get out.

Now I’m bonded to the cargo, running from one of the most powerful corporations in the sector, with no plan beyond “keep moving and try not to feel guilty about traumatizing the attractive alien.”

Story of my life, really. Every time I think I’ve got things figured out, the universe decides to remind me who’s really in charge.

Hours pass as I drift in and out of restless sleep, checking the ship’s systems at intervals, deliberately not thinking about Jhorn locked in the medbay.

The tentacle around my wrist remains a constant reminder, occasionally pulsing with what feels like a heartbeat—or a plea.

I try to ignore it, try to pretend I’m alone.

But I’m not alone, am I? Even with a bulkhead between us, I can feel him like a distant storm on the horizon. His presence is muted but persistent, a constant awareness that sits at the edge of my consciousness like a song I can’t quite remember.

It’s in one of these quiet moments, as I’m staring blankly at the navigation display and wondering if this is what madness feels like, that I hear it—so faint at first I think I’m imagining things. A soft, almost inaudible humming coming through the ship’s internal comm system.

I sit up straighter, listening. It’s definitely real—a melody unlike anything I’ve heard before, alien in its cadence yet hauntingly beautiful.

It rises and falls like waves, like breathing, like the rhythm of a broken heart trying to remember how to beat.

There’s a melancholy to it so profound it makes my chest ache, a loneliness that speaks to something buried deep in my own soul.

And woven through it, like a prayer or a plea, I hear the cadence of my name: “Kay-lee... Kay-lee...”

Something breaks open inside me—a crack in the walls I’ve built so carefully around my heart.

The loneliness in that sound, the yearning, the acceptance of rejection even as it continues to reach out.

.. it bypasses all my defenses and goes straight to a place I thought I’d successfully buried years ago.

The place that remembers what it feels like to be truly alone.

I’ve been alone for so long I’d forgotten there was any other way to be. Alone in my ship, alone with my thoughts, alone with my mistakes and my regrets and the endless void between star systems. I’d convinced myself it was better this way—safer, simpler, less chance of getting hurt.

But listening to Jhorn’s alien lullaby, feeling the echo of his isolation through our bond, I remember what I’ve been running from all these years. Not just debt, not just dangerous jobs, not just the consequences of my poor choices.

Connection. The terrifying, wonderful, devastating possibility of not being alone.

Before I can think better of it, I’m on my feet, moving through the corridors toward the medbay. The humming grows slightly louder as I approach, though it remains soft, private—not meant to manipulate or draw attention, but simply an expression of something too vast to contain.

I stop outside the door, my hand hovering over the control panel. This is a mistake. I should go back to the cockpit, wait out the repairs, stick to the plan. Keep my distance. Protect myself.

Instead, I press the override, unlocking the door. It slides open with a soft hiss that seems to echo through the suddenly quiet corridor.

Jhorn sits cross-legged on the floor, his back against the examination bed, tentacles curled tightly around his torso like armor.

His eyes are closed, his expression one of deep concentration or meditation.

The humming stops abruptly as the door opens, his eyes flying open to fix on me with that unsettling luminous gaze.

“Kaylee,” he says, my name a breath of relief on his lips that does things to my insides I really don’t want to examine. “You have returned.”

I stand awkwardly in the doorway, suddenly unsure why I came, why I broke my own rules. “I heard you... singing. Or something.”

He blinks, a flicker of embarrassment passing through our bond like a warm flush. “Apologies. Did not mean to disturb. It is... a comfort rhythm. From before.”

“Before what?” I ask, though part of me already knows the answer.

“Before you.” He says it simply, as if it’s the most natural division of time—everything that came before this moment, and everything that comes after. “In the dark. In the cold. When alone.”

The stark simplicity of his words hits me harder than any elaborate explanation could have.

I take a step into the room, then another, until I’m standing before him.

He remains seated, making no move to rise, perhaps afraid of startling me or perhaps respecting the fragile distance I’ve tried to maintain.

“What are you?” I ask, the question that’s been haunting me since he emerged from the container like some kind of alien fever dream. “Really?”

He considers this, head tilted slightly in that way that’s becoming familiar.

“I am Jhorn,” he says finally, as if that’s both the simplest and most complex answer possible.

“Created by ApexCorp for bonding. For connection. Beyond that...” A ripple of confusion passes through our link, dark and uncertain.

“Memories are... fragments. Impressions. The cold. The dark. Tests. Pain. Then you.”

“But what were you made for?” I press, needing to understand what I’ve gotten myself tangled up with. “Why would they create something like you?”