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T he diner smells like burnt coffee and stale grease, the kind of place where the vinyl booths stick to your thighs if you sit too long. My suitcase leans against the cracked leather seat, its weight a reminder of everything I’m leaving behind. I rock back and forth, my fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the chipped Formica table. The coffee in front of me is lukewarm, but I take a sip anyway, the bitterness grounding me.

Outside, the sun dips low, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt parking lot. A black car pulls up, sleek and out of place in this dusty nowhere town. My heart skips a beat. This has to be her.

The door swings open, and Felicity Munch strides in like she owns the place. She’s taller than I expected, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun, and her grey eyes scan the room with a precision that makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking over my coffee in the process.

“Hello,” I blurt out, my voice too loud in the quiet diner. “My name is Vicki Sloane, and I swear I’m not a gold digger, even if I did sign up for the billionaire matchmaking service, which I guess does make me look like a gold digger, even if I’m not one —am I rambling? Sometimes I ramble, and people don’t tell me that I’m rambling, and it gets really embarrassing, and I?—”

A low growl cuts me off, so deep it vibrates through the floor and rattles the glasses on the table. I freeze, my mouth snapping shut. The sound isn’t human, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Felicity’s expression softens, almost apologetic. “Sit,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “And, please, listen.”

I drop back into the booth, my hands trembling as I grip the edge of the table. She slides in across from me, her movements smooth and deliberate. The waitress approaches, but Felicity waves her off with a single glance.

“You’re nervous,” she says, not unkindly. “That’s understandable. What you’re about to hear will change everything you think you know about the world.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Okay.”

Felicity arches one perfect eyebrow. "I'm not sure you grasp my meaning. But you will. Take a drive with me."

Before I can respond, she stands and strides toward the door, leaving me gaping after her. Wait, what? My brain catches up and I scramble from the booth, nearly tripping over my suitcase.

"Hey, wait!" I hurry after her, dragging my luggage across the sticky floor.

The car waiting outside looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. The doors slide up instead of out, and the interior glows with blue light from dozens of displays I don't recognize. My suitcase disappears into a compartment that definitely wasn't there a second ago.

The leather seat molds to my body as I sink into it. The car purrs to life - no, that's not right. It hums, like some exotic instrument. We pull onto the highway, the steering wheel moving on its own while Felicity's hands rest in her lap.

"Tell me, Vicki. Do you believe in extraterrestrial life?"

Oh no. No no no. I groan and bury my face in my hands. This can't be happening.

"I knew this billionaire matchmaking thing was too good to be true. You're part of some weird UFO cult, aren't you?" I peek through my fingers at her. "Am I going to have to shave my head and wear a jumpsuit?"

"I doubt your match will want you to shave your head. As to your attire, that's your own business," Felicity says, her lips quirking into what might be a smile.

My heart skips. "Wait, so there really is a match? This isn't all a big scam?"

"No scam."

"Then why did you ask me if I believe in aliens?"

The car swerves without warning. My stomach lurches as we veer off the road, tires thumping over grass and dirt. Fields blur past my window at impossible speeds.

"Stop! Are you crazy?" I press back against my seat, fingers digging into leather. "You're going to kill us!"

Felicity's finger hovers over a button on the steering wheel. My scream cuts short as she presses it and the world tilts. The car shoots upward, my body pinned to the seat by invisible force.

Through the windshield, I watch the ground shrink away. Trees become dots. Roads turn to threads. My ears pop as we pierce through clouds, the sky darkening to a deeper and deeper blue.

This can't be real. I'm hallucinating. That has to be it.

"Did you slip me some LSD at the diner?"

"Forgive the theatrics," Felicity says, her voice smooth as the hum of the engine beneath us. "But it was the quickest way to convince you that I'm not crazy, nor are you in the clutches of a cult."

I twist my hands in my lap, my nails digging into my palms. "Then what is going on? Was the whole matchmaking thing a lie?" My voice cracks, and I hate how small it sounds.

Felicity shakes her head, the motion precise, almost mechanical. "No, the matchmaking is real. You’ve been matched to a billionaire named Rocky Anderson. The contract you signed obligates you to cohabitate with him for a period of no less than six months, during which time you’ll make a sincere effort to explore a romantic connection with him."

I blink, my mind racing. "A sincere effort doesn’t mean... I mean, I don’t have to?—"

"A sincere effort does not involve your sleeping with him," Felicity interrupts, her lips quirking in what might be amusement. "It just means you’re approaching this potential match in good faith. Nothing more. Nothing less."

I flush, heat crawling up my neck and spreading across my cheeks. "Okay. Fine. I can do that. But why the spaceship? Why the... whatever this is?" I gesture wildly at the windshield where stars now twinkle against the endless black.

Felicity leans back in her seat, her posture impossibly perfect. "At the end of the six months, you’re free to leave and collect your million-dollar severance fee. All the contract details apply. There’s just a certain caveat we didn’t write down."

I cross my arms, my patience fraying like a worn-out sweater. "What? What didn’t you write down? Is this Rocky guy secretly a criminal? A spy? A—" My breath catches. "Wait. Is he... an alien? "

Felicity doesn’t answer. Her grey eyes meet mine, steady and unblinking. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until it feels like the walls of the car are closing in.

"No," I whisper, shaking my head. "No, no, no. You’re messing with me. This is some elaborate prank. Reality TV or something. Right?" I laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing.

Felicity’s expression doesn’t change. "Rocky Anderson is a Vakutan warrior. Seven feet tall, red scales, purple eyes. He’s strong enough to lift a car and honorable enough to protect you with his life. But yes, to answer your question, he is an alien."

My mouth opens, but no words come out. My brain stutters, trying to process the insanity she’s just dropped on me. "You’re serious."

"Completely."

I slump back in my seat, my head spinning. "This is... this is too much. I can’t—I can’t do this. I mean, an alien? "

"You’ll adapt," Felicity says, her tone matter-of-fact. "Humans are remarkably resilient. And Rocky is... unique. You might find him more agreeable than you think."

"Agreeable?" I sputter. "He’s an alien! What am I supposed to do? Bring him home to meet my parents? ‘Hey, Mom, Dad, this is Rocky. He’s from another planet, but don’t worry, he’s loaded!’"

Felicity’s lips twitch again, almost a smile. "You’ll figure it out. Trust me."

The car descends in a swooping arc that makes my stomach do backflips. We land in the diner parking lot as if we'd never left, the vehicle settling with a gentle hum. My legs shake as I stumble back inside.

The vinyl booth squeaks under my weight. A plate of chicken fried steak appears before me, but I can barely look at it. My fork pushes the meat around, making trails through the cream gravy.

Across from me, Felicity attacks plate after plate of catfish like she hasn't eaten in days. The bones pile up, stripped clean. Her perfect posture never wavers, even as she demolishes enough food to feed a football team.

"You're an alien too, aren't you?"

She dabs her lips with a napkin. "Yes."

"But if there are Vakutans already here on Earth, why does Rocky need to be matched with a human woman? Couldn't he find a nice Vakutan wife instead?"

Pain flashes across Felicity's face, and I immediately wish I could take the words back. But she answers anyway, her voice gentle.

"There are not that many Vakutan on Earth in this time period, Vicki. And most of them are male. Vakutans have a notoriously low female birth rate."

My heart aches for them, but then her words fully register. "Wait," I say, my voice rising with panic, "did you say 'in this time period?' Don't tell me you're not just aliens, you're time traveling aliens, too?"

Felicity's silence speaks volumes.

"This just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

I stare at her, my mind racing. Aliens. Time travel. A contract that could change everything. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I can almost hear my parents’ voices in my head, chiding me for taking risks, for not staying safe and grounded.

But then I think of the endless days spent babysitting my siblings, the nights alone with a book in my hands, dreaming of something more. I think of my parents’ aging faces, their expectations that I’ll be the one to care for them as they grow older. The thought of being trapped in that life—no. I can’t do it.

“No,” I say, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. “I don’t want to back out.”

Felicity raises an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “Why? You’ve just learned that Rocky is an alien, that this entire arrangement is far more complicated than you imagined. Why are you still interested?”

I grimace, my fingers twisting the edge of the napkin in my lap. “I’ve spent my whole life taking care of my younger siblings. Now they’ve moved away, and my parents are getting older. I don’t want to get trapped caring for them, too. I want them taken care of, but I don’t want to be the one to do it.” My voice cracks, and I look down at the table, my cheeks burning. “Does that make me a bad person? For wanting to escape my dull life, and avoid taking care of my ailing parents?”

Felicity’s expression softens, just a fraction. “Who am I to judge?” she says, her tone almost gentle. Then she points at the remains of my steak, her lips quirking into a faint smile. “Are you gonna eat that?”

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Uh, no. Go ahead.”

She doesn’t hesitate, spearing a piece of steak with her fork and popping it into her mouth. I watch her, my mind still spinning. This woman—this alien—just took me on a spaceship ride and is now casually eating my leftovers like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And yet, somehow, I feel more grounded than I have in years.

I push my empty plate aside, gathering my courage. "Is there anything I should know about Rocky before I meet him?"

Felicity's fork stops halfway to her mouth. She sets it down with deliberate care, her grey eyes fixed on me. The silence stretches until I want to squirm in my seat.

"I'm not certain how much Rokkon would want me to share about him and his experiences," she says, each word measured and careful. "I'm sorry, but I can't be more specific than that. All I can say is that Rokkon is a profoundly lonely and sad man. Remember that, when you are dealing with his... rougher edges."

My stomach twists. Lonely. Sad. The words echo in my head, stirring memories of nights spent alone with my books, dreaming of adventures I'd never have. Of watching my siblings move away while I stayed behind, trapped by duty and obligation.

I'd always imagined billionaires lived charmed lives, their wealth a shield against the darker emotions that plague regular people like me. But maybe money really can't buy happiness after all.

"When can I meet him?"

"Soon," Felicity says.