“That,” she says, “was the best interaction I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
I shake my head. “He’s definitely not normal.”
Sammy grins like she’s just won the lottery. “Itoldyou. He’s an alien.”
And for once, I don’t disagree. Not out loud.
Because a tiny, irrational part of me—the one that still believes in magic and fate and really,reallyweird timing—can’t shake the feeling that this man is more than just a bad liar in a meat suit.
He’s something else.
And I think we just met our very own visitor from the stars.
CHAPTER 5
RYCHNE
Heat drips through my shirt like low-humidity fire. I’m crouched in the patch of scrub grass behind my stashed barn, placing thermal markers—tiny disks with sensors—every five meters like I’m mapping some unknown terrain. Hands, even the human ones, still tremble slightly when I hold tools above open soil. Pain pulses along my ribs, and sweat beads at the base of my neck, but I have to finish. Function is everything now.
Pitter-patter.
Footsteps small and confident, approaching. I don’t turn. On Vakut, I would have been alerted by changes in pheromones, the subtlest shift in pheromonal scent. Here? It’s just… human child. No guard instincts, no calibration for this kind of intruder.
A voice, “What are you doing?”
I freeze. Tools still in hand. My heart hammers—human hearts are less forgiving under stress. And I don’t have time to explain alien survival plans to a ten-year-old human.
I turn slowly.
She’s standing there—Sammy Malone. Small for her age, but fierce. Freckles all over like little battle scars. Dark hair in pigtails. A uniform of pink shirt, denim shorts, and sneakersspattered with grass stains. She watches me from beneath curious eyes—expectation and wariness mixed in.
I swallow—an alien trying to birdwatch; human muscles stiffen during digestion. “I am mapping microclimate zones. For… weather forecasts.”
She steps closer, head cocked. “With bombs?”
Her eyes flick to the markers. Apparently, children here know exactly what a thermal marker looks like. Or maybe she just thinkseverythingis a bomb.
I hesitate.
“Perhaps.” I wait, letting that hang. Her face freezes—skeptical, amused. Not quite angry. Not running away.
Then she crosses her arms. “Explain.”
I adjust my voice, lower it. “They detect temperature. So I can anticipate heat zones and cold spots around your... property.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like when my mom tells me she’s 'checking my bedtime adherence,' but really she’s just keeping an eye on me.”
Heh. Observing small humans can be more… transparent than observing warriors. “Your mother speaks diplomatically.”
She snorts. “I speak honestly.”
I look at my hands. “I apologize. I thought hidden instruments would be undisturbed.”
“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “secret stuff doesn’t mean bomb stuff. Unless you’re planting bombs.”
I hold her gaze—a test of resolve. “Iam.”
Her face goes blank one instant, then blooms into delight. She jumps forward, examining the disks. “Cool! So you are planting…colder bombs?” She touches a marker and flinches at its cool metal surface. “Like the fridge you’ve stolen?”
