“That’s really kind of you, Koko. Thank you so—”
“Oh, sorry, Lily! I have to go. I have another call coming through. Just call me if you need anything. Bye!”
With that, the line goes dead. I stare at the darkened screen of my phone for a minute, trying to process that weird conversation. What a strange woman.
“Well, that was certainly odd,” I laugh nervously before turning the ringer off and slipping the phone into my back pocket. Shaking my head, I head back into the comforting confines of the cabin.
Glancing in Stormy’s direction, I check to see if the abrupt call startled him awake. He lies unmoving, still in the unconscious state he’s been in since the crash. I’m concerned that he hasn’t woken up yet. At the rate he is healing, I expect he should wake up soon. Unless he has a traumatic brain injury or something other internal damage that I can’t assess. A tangled mix of relief and concern laces up my chest as I approach him cautiously, my fingers brushing lightly over his skin.
He doesn’t stir, sleeping deeply, heedless of my presence. Now that I’m clean, I feel bad that he is still covered in the remnants of blood and dirt from the crash. Despite doing my best to clean him up last night, getting his injuries dealt with was more important than getting him completely clean.
Showering was such a relief for me, so I can only imagine how much better he’ll feel when he wakes up if he’s not crusty.
I look at Stormy, lost and injured in a world that is not his own, and my heart clenches. He deserves that relief, too.
“Alright, mister,” I announce to the quiet cabin, chambering my determination like a bullet. “Time for a sponge bath.”
I gather a small basin of warm soapy water, a soft rag, and a towel. I set them on the coffee table at my side before carefully starting at one of his feet. His peaceful face doesn’t flinch while I work. I move slowly and methodically, ensuring that I do not jostle him and being careful around his scrapes and bruises.
Gently, I take hold of one of his alien feet; they are large, almost twice the size of mine. Once I clean the dirt off his foot, I dunk the washcloth back in the bowl and make my way up his calf. He has a runner’s calves – nicely sculpted and toned. As I wash away the dirt and blood, I quietly explain what I’m doing as I go. I’m unsure why, since he isn’t awake to hear me, but I’m hoping his subconscious can hear me and let him know that he’s safe and cared for.
Hesitantly, I slide the rag upwards, slowly washing his thigh. It’s thickly muscled – meaty even. My mouth goes dry, and I realize I’ve frozen, staring at his exposed leg like a starving wolf. Clearing my throat, I return to washing his leg, quietly talking.
The unusually dense fiber of his thigh muscles somehow captivates me. I collect my composure, swallowing hard against the thrumming curiosity inside me. However, I don’t venture higher.
Yet, I can’t stop the vivid visualizations from flooding my mind. This… alien, his muscular thighs and the power they exhibit ensnare my thoughts, and I am left imagining what those muscles might look like when flexed. Guh, I bet he can crush a watermelon with his thighs. I can almost feel the taut expanse bunched under my fingers, the energy they would radiate…
I silently berate myself. There’s a life here depending on me, and I take my responsibility seriously. With newfound resolve, I continue my ministrations, trying not to think about the thick muscles beneath my fingers or the shape of the body under my hands.
I glance up at the alien’s face, checking to see if the sponge bath is waking him, but his harsh face is serene and still. Thank goodness. How awkward would that introduction be? ‘Hi, I’m Lily, and I’m here washing your mostly naked body. Oh, you’ve noticed my hard nipples? How strange. I’m sure it has nothing to do with your thighs and my sudden desire to gnaw on them.’
I think I’ve overloaded my brain in the last twenty-four hours, and this is the result.
I finally finish cleaning his right leg, which I pat dry, and tuck the blanket back around it before moving to his left leg and starting the same path.
I carefully clean the small smattering of wounds and bruises on Stormy’s left leg, my fingers skimming over his skin. I wring the soft cloth into the punch bowl I commandeered. The used water has begun to turn a murky gray. It looks like bathwater after a mud fight, I muse to myself. I get a fresh bowl of water to wash Stormy’s upper half.
On my return, I find Mango curled up at Stormy’s side, his amber eyes watching the stranger with a mix of curiosity and distrust. “Shoo, Mango. We’ve got work to do.” I gently nudge him away with the tip of my foot, setting the bowl down in his place. He shoots me a betrayed look but eventually decides to relocate to a windowsill, where he contently watches the birds flitting from tree to tree.
Turning my attention back to my patient, I slowly peel down the blanket, rolling it down until it’s even with his hip bones, revealing his upper torso. His body is unlike anything I’ve ever seen outside of a movie theater.
“Holy shit. You’re a beast,” I whisper in a choked voice. His physique makes me think of barbarians and gladiators and Spartan warriors.
I can’t help but notice the stark contrast between him and any man I’ve ever known. Even in the low light of the cabin, hismuscular form seems to radiate power. The alien’s fierce body has a strange, stunning beauty. An interplay of lean, hard muscle and smooth, almost luminescent skin stretches across his broad shoulders, arrowing down into a narrow waist. His physiology might be foreign, but it stirs something profound within me. My professional instincts take a backseat for a moment as I allow myself to look at him; to marvel at his masculine beauty. He has the kind of six-pack that I want to slurp water from.
It should be a sin to be this hot. Actually, the only sinning going on right now is me and the images running through my mind. Shaking myself out of my inappropriate thoughts, I dip my rag into the water and start to wash him.
As I gently scrub the dirt and blood from his skin, my hands hesitate on his abdomen. I can feel him stir slightly underneath my touch as if even in this incapacitated state, his nerves are reacting to the contact. I moved slowly, making sure not to use too much pressure to bathe him. As I wash away the grime, and his gray skin is revealed, I realize that his skin is covered in an elaborate tapestry of scars.
My eyes widen slightly as I trail a careful finger along one of the larger ones that winds from his lower abdomen, reaches across his oblique, and then climbs up his side to disappear beneath his rib cage. A story is mapped out on his skin – a tale of pain and endurance.
The sun’s light filters through the cabin window, highlighting the contrast of his almost luminescent skin and the raised texture of his scars. Some are old and faded, mere whispers of past incidents. Others are fresher, their edges reddened, a vivid, painful reminder of a recent occurrence. They crisscross his chest and arms, revealing a history of trials and challenges that are far beyond my comprehension.
The worst part is that most scars are clearly surgical – precise and straight.
A sickening dread coils in my stomach, and my chest tightens at the implication of what the sheer quantity of scars might imply. It feels strange to hope that his people and not mine created these. I can’t shake off the nagging awareness of my species’ shortcomings and the horrors we are capable of perpetrating.
A sense of protectiveness washes over me as I carefully bandage up his freshest cuts and bruises, promising silently to do what I can to heal his wounds, both seen and unseen. After all, beneath the alien exterior, Stormy bleeds and scars like any other.
