by Amanda Milo
I feel less awkward in this moment than I have mid-relationship with men on Earth. This alien managed to do a better job carefully shaving my legs with what felt like a machete than I can accomplish with a women’s safety razor and that takes trust—that makes trust. I can hear him searching for more rags, and as he does, I give him a crash course in the female reproductive system.
He’s handing me a towel that I can slide under myself when he clarifies—and by that, I mean exclaims in horror—“Your insides are shedding?”
“That’s… yeah, that’s what they’re doing exactly,” I confirm. Despite the best efforts of the rag I furtively stuffed between my legs, the second I try to sit up and shift onto the towel, I feel like I soak everything underneath of me. It may even bleed down into the sheet; it feels that bad. “Fun conversation: I might have stained your bed just now. I’m so so—”
He doesn’t let me finish apologizing. He’s entirely matter-of-fact. “Sanna, I grew up on a farm.” The tea kettle starts banging on the stove, a precursor to its particularly shrill squeal. It sounds like Breslin carelessly clanks it on a cool burner before he adds, “As long as it’s natural and not life-threatening, stop worrying yourself and drink tea.”
“Tea?”
“This tea,” he presses a cup into my hands. “It helps a little with pain.”
So I drink his tea, shuffle to the toilet to clean myself up, and I do stop worrying. Breslin’s a natural caregiver. He incorporates the disruption to his morning as if it’s simply a task to check off before chores:
Help my bleeding human.
Tackle rest of day.
He doesn’t make me feel like my needs are slowing him down even as the Narwari cry outside the door like they’re starved to skin and bones in the (maybe) twenty minutes (and counting) it’s taking away from their usual breakfast time routine. Right before he leaves, Breslin taps my leg and tells me, “Take all the time you need—and finish your tea. I steeped another cup for you.”
After the door closes, I run my fingernail along the side of my thumb. The extra mile of care Breslin just went out of his way to give me, paired with his easygoing practicality the entire time he was doing it… I’ve just been whalloped with the strongest sense of intimacy I’ve ever felt with anyone.
Breslin’s beyond likable. I almost wish I hadn’t had so many hits of his sweetness. He’s dangerously addictive.
CHAPTER 16
SANNA
Breslin knocks and asks if I want him to take Kota for a quick walk since it’s taking me a bit longer this morning to get ready.
Normally, I’d never consider sending my four-pawed partner off with anyone. Normally, Kota would refuse to move if someone tried. But I hear her move to the door when Breslin mentions her name, and she’s a brilliant dog; I think she gets the jist of the conversation just fine. “If she’ll go with you, that’d be great. Thank you.” I’m so grateful to him. “Kota, do you have to toilet? Will you go with Breslin?”
“She’s looking back at you over her withers...” Breslin narrates. “But she’s exiting the house. Looks like we’re good to try.”
“When you get to the spot you want her to go you can say ‘get busy’ too.”
There’s definitely a smile in his voice. “I’ve heard you instruct her with that phrase. I’ll be sure to tell her. When you’re ready, join us, and if we’re successful or not she’s at least had the opportunity to relieve herself.”
“Sounds good,” I confirm as he shuts the door.
A few minutes later, my head is halfway to stuck as I fight to get some type of cable-knit shirt on—yes, yes, I have it right, this is the neck and not a sleeve, goodness it’s snug—when there’s a loud scratch at the door.
Before I can do more than struggle harder to either emerge or escape the garment strangling me like a sweatersquid, the door sounds like it’s about to cave in and I hear Breslin: “Easy, easy, I told you I’d let you in; just give me a moment—”
The sound of the handle seems to reach my ears at the same time Kota lands on me. Squeal-whining, she proceeds to fill me in on her adventure, her tail beating at me as she wags it wildly. Thankfully, her initial bump into me helped my head break free of the sweaterneck canal and I’m officially wearing this thing.
I may not be able to get out of it, but by God, I’ve got it on.
“Hey, Kota,” I hug her hard and one of her paws comes up over my arm and clings like she’s hugging me back. “Were you good?”
“She used the outdoor facilities,” Breslin confirms. “Do you need any assistance?”
Feeling shy, I squeeze Kota for a second as I say, “Nope, but thanks. What’s on the itinerary for today?”
“Once the Narwari are fed, it’s time to travel to another appointment, this one for trimming more than training. Care to join me?”
I do. And that’s how weeks go by. Breslin makes the time pass so easily and despite the routine not deviating much, somehow our time together is never boring, nothing gets stale.
In everything he does, it’s obvious Breslin’s trying his best to make my time here as comfortable and pleasant as possible, and his efforts have been appreciated—but the thing that keeps me from falling into more than the occasional bout of homesickness is him.
It’s Breslin.
He makes me feel so… accepted. I’m not ‘the blind girl.’ I’m Sanna.
Sometimes, I feel so content that I wonder if maybe I miss the idea of home more than I actually miss it. But then I think of my family. My mom. My dad. My zany sister. Their kennel where I love to go when there’s a litter of roly poly puppies. The thought of being separated from them by more than mere miles makes my chest actually ache. At least I have Kota. Technically, we’ve been going it on our own for a while and although I can survive without day to day contact from loved ones—Kota is the exception. I’d go crazy if she wasn’t with me.
But no matter how much I’m missing home, Breslin’s always there, making me happy to be with him even if here is not where I chose to be.
Case in point: my day’s been sailing along, chipper and bright, all because it started with Breslin squeezing my toes where I was cocooned in the blankets as he left the house. That tiny scrap of contact has had me smiling and humming even though we’re under a bit of a time crunch: today is another training-and-hoof trimming, but this farm is even farther out than the others so we need to book it as soon as we finish feeding the Narwari pack.
The buckets are barely done being stacked but I can feel Kota’s anticipation. She loves wagon rides. Honestly? So do I.
Unlike me though, when we get to the wagon, Kota eagerly scrambles into it, effortlessly making the leap up from a standstill. I beam a smile up in her direction. Breslin cheers for her job well done and sets off the percussion of her tail against the benchseat’s back.
I cheer too because this is a seriously impressive jump. I sure can’t make it. Luckily, I don’t have to. Breslin’s hands land on my hips, and he gives me the lift I need. And not gonna lie: having Breslin’s hands on me is my secret highlight to these trips. To think that being lifted up and down from the wagon used to make me nervous. Not anymore.
“What has you smiling like this?” Breslin asks as he joins me.
“Just having a happy morning,” I tell him.
“At least it’ll get me good tips,” he mutters.
When he doesn’t say anything more, I make a noise of protest. “WHAT did you just say? You can’t just drop something like that and not explain!”
Breslin bumps me as he shifts his immense form on the unforgiving wooden seat. “I’ve worked the trainer and farrier circuit my whole life.”
“Alright.”
“And I’ve gotten my fair share of tips for jobs well done.”
“Okay.”
“But all of a sudden every farmer has blessed us with a fat gift on top of the amount due. Prichard’s gratuity being the biggest. I’m convinced it’s your smile that’s doing it.”
To this Breslin only says, “And that. Creator help them if they ever hear you laugh.”
Feeling a little tongue-tied, I don’t say anything for a beat. I’m surprised Prichard gave us anything extra at all—he seemed so grumpy. Breslin had claimed that the other alien is normally lighthearted and would be back to his normal self by the next time we saw him, but it’d been kind of hard to imagine.
Other than him, everyone else has gone out of their way to be friendly and keep me entertained—in the literal, old-fashioned sense: funny stories, a temperature-appropriate drink and sweetened snacks. At first, I’d been nervous at all the attention, but it was the polite kind, and Breslin told me I was the only female for ‘sticks and sticks,’ so I should expect to be pampered.
I’ve found out it’s kinda nice to be pampered. I also like being protected—which is good, because Breslin acts just a tiny bit, exhilaratingly possessive. He doesn’t let anyone stand in my personal space, he doesn’t let the chatting go on too long or get too personal and I’ve received the impression that these males are all a little bit intimidated by Breslin.
It never fails to feel good. I love training and hoof trimming days. Still, I’m stunned. A smile from a woman makes these lonely aliens tip us better? A smile? Finally I manage, “You’re serious.”
“As a hobbled Narwari.”
I snort. “A hobbled Narwari—would that be another way of saying you’re homicidal with indignation?”
“Very near.”
Not sure how I should take this, but feeling my insides flutter with a thrill, I clear my throat and I pose a nice, safe question. “What are we doing with these tips?”
I hear a scuffing sound I associate with Breslin when he’s in his thinking mode. I still don’t know what it comes from but I’m finally comfortable enough with him that I reach up and touch his face—taking him by surprise—and find he’s got his fingers on his jaw.
I give him an impersonal feel-up; searching all around the length of his jaw, the bottom of his chin, the base of his throat, trying to find stubble or hairs or some reason he itches and what makes the noise when he does it.
I don’t find anything. “I give. What makes the noise?”
“This?” he wiggles his fingers under mine, and I hear the scuffing again.
I catch and turn over his fingers and it’s his skin—his finger pads and the skin on his face is just rough enough to make this light scraping sound when the surfaces press together.
“While you’re there you may as well make your little nails useful. Give me a scratch, would you?”
I snort on him, but I do as he asks, giving him a little scritch before I plop back down, my hands dropping to my lap. “Mystery solved.”
“That’s it?” Breslin asks. “You were doing so well, and I wasn’t done.”
I laugh and raise up on my knees and anchor myself on his shoulder to give him another go. I laugh harder when he arches his neck for me just like one of his Narwari so that I can get all of his itchy spots.
His voice is a grateful, vibrating groan when he declares, “Done well, Sanna. Plenty thanks.”
I drop down beside him again and take hold of my original question. “You were in the middle of answering me.”
“Was I?”
I pretend to nod primly. “You were. You were about to reveal what we’re doing with the scads of money I’m earning my master.”
He nudges me, and it’s a small movement for him, but I have to catch myself so I don’t slide across the bench. Breslin helps by tugging me back to his side, and even though his voice is gruff, he pats my leg softly. “Disrespectful little creature. I thought you might like to go to dinner in town.”
I clap my hands together. “Oooh, I’d like that. Alien restaurants!”
“Hold onto that smile, alien, and we’ll be able to buy the restaurants.”
I grin up at him and he mutters to himself and my happy feelings stay as we roll on to the next unsuspecting farm.
And when he finishes up the job and packs us back into the wagon, Breslin presses a drawstring bag into my lap, his fingers brushing my thighs and, despite his touch being incidental and delivered in an impersonal way, it still has my thighs clenching. “Your share of the scads.”
I hug the heavy bag to me all the way to the little one-room farmhouse.
CHAPTER 17
SANNA
Slowly, I come to that awareness where my body is so relaxed I’m boneless but my neck is stretched to the point it makes swallowing too awkward to keep sleeping through. It’s choke to death or wake up, and doggone it, no matter how much I love sleep, consciousness is winning by seeping increments. Mostly because every attempt to swallow makes my head reflexively snap back, like a baby bird when you try to spoon food down it’s gullet. My neck is stretched because my face is not pillowed, my face is not cushioned—my face is propped up too high on what should not feel so darn good: an unforgivingly hard-muscled bicep.
I gurgle in satisfaction and don’t strain myself to get up. This is too nice, and there are worse things than a stiff neck.
Judging by the length of pipe branding the back of my thigh, Breslin would agree there are many stiff things worse off than my neck.
“Are you awake?” Breslin asks in a rumbly purr that has me wanting to stretch and climb on top of him.
“Mmhmm,” I manage to mumble back. If I wiggle down and press myself to him in invitation, would he be receptive?
I’m Breslin-infatuated. I’m crazy for his voice, his smell, and his hands on me. He’s made me an addict when it comes to sleeping with him. But I want more than actual sleeping. I want to do all the things in this bed that have nothing to do with sleeping. I hope he’s as worked up about me as I am about him—yes he’s hard at the moment, but that could be anything. Penises do things, all sorts of things.
Just as I’m making the decision to be bold and either outright ask him or outright jump him, he slides out of bed, taking his pillowing arm with him.
Noooo...
The sounds of him getting ready for the day are nice ones though, so I lie in a heap of sexual fever and listen to him going through his usual routine. It’s a sweet sort of torture. I groan and turn over, grimacing when my thighs rub together and it feels both better and leaves me feeling even more alone. I’ve never had a roommate. Maybe this sexual desire and crazy sexual tension develops for every roommate situation and most individuals just politely go about ignoring it.
I don’t think I have the skill. Not where Breslin’s concerned. How would I even go about building up such a resistance? I listen to him whistle as he dresses, smell his sharp, musky pillow as it cools next to my head, and feel his hand squeeze my foot over the blankets as he tells me he’ll see me in the far pasture, or in the stalls or wherever he’ll be as he works up his (really really excellent smelling) sweat for the day.
I bear it all and I don’t proposition him. I have the self control muscles of Chris Hemsworth-as-Thor proportions, clearly.
“Will you come see me soon?” he asks me, and it’s the playfulness in his tone that makes my toes curl. Plus, he’s still holding my foot in his hand and it’s doing all sorts of things—his touch is traveling right up my leg like a clear highway to my welcome center station and I cannot concentrate on anything else.
That’s why I answer with a drugged and dreamy, “Uh huh.”
He squeezes my toes again and my thighs jump. This man breaks animals for a living and my good gravy I believe he does it well. The word breaking used to conjure a painful connotation in my mind but in this moment, I believe with the fervor of a thousand swooning hearts that Breslin doesn’t have to beat or terrorize any of his conquests. Softly spoken commands and gentle whispering touches from him would have me twitching and writhing and begging him to tell me what to do in about five seconds flat.
“Good salk,” he says softly—YES! Softly, damn him!—and I reexamine my five seconds
time frame. Maybe nanoseconds would be more honest.
Man I’m going to miss Breslin like crazy when I go home.
It’s a thought that’s been weighing heavily on my mind. Breslin-like men do not grow on trees. I’m not even sure they exist—I mean, sure, they might but what’s that saying? What do good men, hard-working men, and wonderful men have in common? They’re already married.
Soon, we’ll be separated by more than the still largely incomprehensible measure of ‘sticks’—we’re going to be separated by galaxies. Just the thought makes me miss him.
If I go home, I’ll never get to enjoy all the wonder that is Breslin again.
My throat closes.
When Breslin gathers his breakfast and announces that the house is all mine to get ready for the day in private, I wait just long enough for him to close the door before I roll over and use my spare moments of privacy to cry into my pillow. Kota’s tags jingle and the bed depresses as she puts her paws near my shoulder, and laying her head close enough to my face that she can touch me with her nose. She whimpers and I sob into alien goose feathers—or whatever fluffy things plump the pillows—as I remind myself of all the reasons it’s worth going back home.
CHAPTER 18
SANNA
Breslin’s in the barn, tinkering on one of his wagons, a flatbed that has no canvas top. Kota and I nearly baked in the sun when we rode in it yesterday so he’s adding a shade over the seat.
It’s so thoughtful that when he informed me of what he was doing, I think I managed to mumble a shaky “Oh! Thanks,” a second ahead of giving Kota the forward command where I hightailed it outside before I could do something embarrassing. Like throw myself on him.
Normally, I keep him company when he’s working but it’s been getting harder and harder not to clamp onto him and forget all the reasons I’d miss home if I stayed.
It’s getting harder and harder to believe that once I’m home, I won’t miss Breslin more than I ever missed Earth.
