“Oh, sorry, I’ll show you.”
The hangar isn’t too busy, so his ship is easy to spot. It’s a Frathik design and similar to others parked there, but it still has ice stuck in parts of it that’s melting and dripping on the floor.
The damage is obvious. Several exterior panels are crumpled, and some internal wiring is exposed. Lyro curses when he sees it. He looks genuinely stricken at its condition.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my heart panging sympathetically. “I’ve heard pilots have a special relationship with their ships.”
He snorts, pulling his hood deeper to hide his face so he can speak from the hollows. “Yes, the special relationship where it can get me off this damned planet. Wait here.”
He stalks over to the ship, wrenches open the door, and disappears inside. He emerges a minute later, arms piled with furs. He walks past me without a word, headed back the way we came, so I hurry after him.
Back in my room, he throws the furs on the bed, and then spends a good ten minutes arranging them. I sit back and let him fuss. It’s pretty cute to see him making a little nest, and I hope he’ll be more comfortable here with his own blankets.
When he’s done, he takes off his cloak and lies down on the bed, propping his hands behind his head, and stares at the featureless ceiling. He has the right idea. It’s late, around the time I usually go to sleep, but we skipped dinner.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, even though my bones are starting to ache, I’m so tired.
“No.”
“Okay, we’ll eat in the morning.” I move to slide into bed next to him, but he braces his arm so I can’t. He motions to the side, where I see he’s left the original fur I had on the bed, the one I borrowed from Rose, on the floor.
“That one’s yours.”
“Oh, I don’t mind sharing,” I rush to assure him. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.” He turns over, so his back is to me. End of discussion.
Okay. The rejection stings a little, but he obviously needs some time to come to terms with our relationship. I guess that’s normal. My life has been so often out of my hands that I’m pretty good at just rolling with whatever comes my way.
Here’s your life in a garbage bag, now you’re living with some new foster family. Here’s an eviction notice, you have to move out tomorrow. Here’s an alien spaceship that traveled across the galaxy to abduct you in the middle of the night. Get in.
“Here’s a dude you’ve never met who is your fated mate” is easy to process in comparison. Not everyone has that skill, though.
I spread out the fur on the floor and use the jacket Rose loaned me as a blanket. It’s not bad. Pretty much the same comfort level I’m used to. It’s kind of fun sleeping on the floor, actually. It reminds me of camping out with my family, before Mom died.
Back then, my sister was just my friend and not trying to parent me, too. We’d have contests to see who could stay awake the longest, staring up at the stars as the campfire died. Funny to think that we are out in that big expanse now, and our sun is a little star that we could stare at the same way.
Just as I’m drifting off, Lyro asks, voice as dark as the room, “Do you hate me?”
That wakes me up. “Why would I?”
“For making you sleep on the floor.”
I laugh. On a scale of bad things, sleeping on the floor barely rates. “No?”
“You will in the morning.”
I don’t, though. When I wake up, it makes me smile to see him in my bed, tangled up in the furs, his face peaceful as colors flicker over his skin while he sleeps. It’s fun imagining what he might be thinking about, the same way I love watching a dog’s paws twitch as it runs through a dream forest as a wolf.
I check on Elvis by tapping on my shell pendant. He sticks his head out like a hermit crab, waving his antennae at me before disappearing back inside. He’s much more active than yesterday morning. Harl’s nectar recipe definitely agrees with him.
Relieved that Elvis’s recovery appears genuine, I roll up my makeshift bed and then clean my teeth and comb my hair. Lyro wakes up as I’m scooping it into a fresh ponytail.
“Morning. I don’t hate you,” I assure him, flashing him a smile as I twist the rubber band around my hair.
“You shouldn’t wear it like that,” he grumbles, propping up on an elbow. “Your hair.”
I tilt my head, swishing it around. “You don’t like my ponytail?”
