Work Text:
Ever since Rocky and I celebrated Christmas together, I started keeping a calendar. With Christmas being the starting point.
Not, like, a real calendar. There’s no paper pinned to a fridge with little kittens on it and passive-aggressive notes like “PAY ELECTRIC BILL” (which, by the way, I miss more than I should). I have a computer system that knows how long it’s been since I last slept, how much food I have left, and exactly how many micrograms of iridium dust are currently ruining my life.
But the computer also has a date function now. Because humans are incapable of existing in a linear timeline without naming every chunk of it.
So when I’m running a routine diagnostic and I see:
DATE: 14 FEB
…I stop.
Not because the ship cares. The ship doesn’t care. The ship is a metal tube full of stubborn micro-organism and one highly stressed mammal. The ship would fly into a star if the math told it to. It has no opinion on February.
But I care.
Which is stupid, because Valentine’s Day is one of those holidays that exists purely to make humans feel either (a) obligated, (b) inadequate, or (c) sticky with cheap chocolate.
And yet I stare at that tiny line of text and feel something in my chest tighten. I sigh.
“Question.” says a voice from the intercom. The voice is not human. The voice is also not technically a voice, because it comes through the speaker as musical tones. But at this point my brain files it under friend talking to me, which is a category I didn’t know my brain could still make.
“Yes, Rocky?”
A brief pause while the ship routes my microphone. Rocky is in the lab.
“Why you make noise, question?”
“I…” I glance back at the console. “Oh. Nothing. Just… the date.”
“Date, question?” Rocky’s tones tilt upward. Curious.
“Yeah. Human timekeeping thing. We… carve the year into arbitrary slices so we can pretend we’re in control.”
“I know what date is. You are not in control of that.”
“Correct.”
“Then why sigh, question?”
“Because…”
“Grace.” Rocky interrupts in that way he has when he’s decided the words I’m making are not efficiently connected. “Explain today date meaning. Is it Christmas time again, question?”
“No. It’s not Christmas.” I swivel in my chair. “Okay. Date is… today is February 14th.”
Rocky hums a thoughtful chord.
“What special about February 14, question?”
I freeze.
Because I have a lot of tools for handling existential dread. I can do math. I can make jokes. I can hyperfocus on how to scrub CO₂ out of the air. I can lecture imaginary students about orbital mechanics until my brain stops screaming.
But I do not have a prepared protocol for: Your alien best friend asks you about Valentine’s Day while you are alone in deep space on a probable suicide return trip (for me) to his homeworld.
That is not in any NASA manual I ever read.
“…It’s a holiday.” I say, because that’s the safest possible opening sentence. Like I’m defusing a bomb and all I have is a butter knife.
“Holiday.” Rocky repeats the musical equivalent of tasting the word. “Like Christmas, question?”
“Sort of. But way worse.”
“Worse, question?”
“Christmas has… family obligations and consumerism and religious history and the stress of pretending you like your extended relatives. Valentine’s Day has all that but compressed into one person and also tied to your worth as a human being based on your ability to acquire flowers.”
Rocky doesn’t laugh the way a human does. He makes a warm, amused series of chords. It’s his version of a chuckle. “Humans have strange worth measures.”
“You have no idea.”
Rocky hums again, thoughtful. “Explain Valentine’s Day.”
And just like that, the bomb is in my lap, ticking loudly, and Rocky is “staring” at it going, ooh, interesting.
I blow out a breath. “Okay. Um. Valentine’s Day. Historically, it’s named after… Saint Valentine. So, there’s this Christian tradition where Valentine was a martyr, possibly for performing marriages when the emperor didn’t want soldiers to marry, because married soldiers are less likely to go die in pointless wars.”
Rocky’s tones go sharp. “That is logical. Family lowers risk behavior.”
“Exactly. So the legend is that Valentine performed secret marriages anyway. Because love. And then he got executed. So naturally humans turned that into a holiday where we buy lingerie.”
Rocky pauses. “Explain lingerie.”
“No.”
“Why no, question?”
“Because I’m your science teacher and your life coach and your language tutor and your friend, but I draw the line at being your underwear consultant.”
Rocky makes the amused chord again. “Underwear consultant.”
“Yeah. Not happening.”
Another pause, he accepts it. He’s good at accepting boundaries. Better than most humans, honestly. “So Valentine’s Day celebrates secret marriages and death, question?”
“Sort of. But over time it became associated with romantic love. Mostly because medieval poets were bored and needed something to write about besides war and plague.”
“Plague.” Rocky asks, and I can hear the grin in his tones. He likes when humans are messy.
“Lots of people dying from disease. You’d have loved it.”
“I would not love plague.”
“Okay, you would have loved analyzing plague. You’d be like, ‘Ah! Interesting! Why bacteria do this?’”
“Bacteria do not decide.”
“Tell that to the bacteria currently living in my digestive system.”
Rocky hums a disapproving chord. “Your digestive bacteria are not enemies.”
“Some days, I disagree.”
He shifts topics because that’s what he does when a thread stops being useful. “So holiday is for romantic pairing. We celebrate that too.”
“Mostly,” I say. “but it gets weird. Because humans turn everything into a social metric. So if you’re in a romantic relationship, Valentine’s Day is this expectation…”
“Expectation.” Rocky repeats.
“...that you must perform affection in a publicly recognizable way. Like, you’re supposed to give your partner gifts. Cards. Chocolate. Flowers. Go to dinner. Ask them to be their Valentine. Make… gestures. To prove you care.”
Rocky considers. “If you care, why need prove, question?”
I open my mouth and then close it.
Because yeah. Exactly. That’s the whole problem.
“Because humans.” I say finally, which is not an answer but is the closest we have to one.
Rocky hums. “Human social bonding is complicated.”
“It’s a nightmare.” I correct. “And also, Valentine’s Day is kind of a trap. Because if you’re not in a relationship, it’s like the world is shouting ‘HEY! YOU’RE ALONE! BUY YOURSELF SAD CHOCOLATE!’”
Rocky’s tones dip. “Sad chocolate.”
“Yep. There’s a whole industry around it.”
Rocky pauses, then: “What you do on Valentine’s Day, question?”
I blink.
Me? What do I do?
I mean, historically? I’ve done a lot of things on Valentine’s Day. Most of them embarrassing in hindsight.
And it’s not like I have a current plan. Unless “check fuel tanks and try not to die of starvation" counts as a romantic gesture.
I go back toward the console, mostly to give my hands something to do. “Depends. When I was younger -like, in my twenties- I… tried hard. Like, absurdly hard.”
“Try hard for what, question?”
“To not be alone.” I say, then regret it immediately. Not because Rocky would judge me, but because I hadn’t planned on being honest today.
There’s a soft, sympathetic chord from the speaker. Rocky doesn’t do pity. He does concern. It’s warmer.
I swallow. “Valentine’s Day is… this weird amplifier. Whatever your relationship status is, it turns the volume up. If you’re happily in love, it’s cute. If you’re in a shaky relationship, it’s stress. If you’re single, it’s… loud.”
Rocky takes a moment. “So you do not like Valentine’s Day.”
“I have… complicated feelings.”
“Explain complicated.”
“Okay,” I say, and I can hear myself sliding into lecture mode because that’s what I do when emotions show up uninvited. “Imagine you’re conducting an experiment. You have a variable you care about, like… the tensile strength of xenonite or whatever.”
“Xenonite has high tensile strength.” Rocky says immediately, because of course he does.
“Sure,” I say, waving that away. “so you want to measure it. But the measuring tool isn’t neutral. The act of measuring changes the result. Like, in quantum mechanics—”
“Quantum mechanics.” Rocky interrupts, delighted. “Explain quantum Valentine’s Day.”
I laugh despite myself. “No. Whatever. I’m just saying: Valentine’s Day is like a measurement that changes your emotional state. You’re aware you’re being evaluated. Even if nobody is actually evaluating you. So you become self-conscious. You compare yourself to other people. You feel pressure.”
Rocky hums. “Humans create pressure.”
“Yeah.”
“And you feel this pressure,” Rocky says slowly. “even if you are not in pairing.”
“Yep.”
“And if you are in pairing, you feel pressure to give correct gifts and gestures.”
“Yep.”
Rocky’s tones sharpen. “This seems inefficient.”
“It is. But humans are not built for efficiency. We’re built for storytelling. And Valentine’s Day tells a story: Love is proven by performance.”
Rocky goes quiet.
I don’t like silence on this ship. Silence means Rocky is thinking, which is usually fine, but sometimes it means he’s about to ask something that makes me confront my own brain.
Finally, he says, “What is being a “valentine”, question?”
I blink. “What?”
“You say ask them to be their valentine. What is being valentine, question? The saint, question? Role, question? Unit, question?”
Unit. Like a measurement. Of course.
“Valentine is… the person you’re romantically focused on for the holiday. Like, you ask someone to be your Valentine. Usually a partner or someone you want to date.”
“Date.” Rocky repeats, now more amused. “Date word is also day word. Confusing.”
“Welcome to English.”
Rocky hums. “So if you ask someone be Valentine, you want romantic bonding with them.”
“Generally.”
“It is not only romantic bonding, question?”
I hesitate. “Mostly. But kids do it too. Like, elementary school kids exchange Valentines with their classmates. It’s more like… friendship and candy.”
“Candy.” Rocky says. “Candy is sugar. Sugar is fuel. Fuel is good.”
“See? You get it.”
Rocky pauses. “Do adults exchange Valentines with friends, question?”
“Sometimes…” I admit. “There’s… a thing called "Galentine’s Day" where women celebrate friendships. And some people give Valentines to friends, sure. But culturally it’s mostly romantic.”
Rocky hums. “Humans put romantic bonding above friendship bonding.”
“In terms of cultural importance, yeah. Which is dumb. Friendship is… arguably more stable, more important for survival.”
“Survival.” Rocky says softly. “Friendship important for survival.”
I feel my throat tighten.
Because yes. Exactly.
The last time I tried to survive alone, I nearly lost my mind.
Friendship is… not secondary. Not out here.
I clear my throat, because subtlety is my only defense. “Anyway. Valentine’s Day is a weird holiday. That’s the summary.”
Rocky’s tones rise. “But humans still celebrate.”
“Yes. Because humans are incapable of learning.”
Rocky makes a little amused chord. “I will add to my human database: Humans celebrate awkward pressure holiday.”
“Correct.”
Silence again.
I look at the date on the console and feel… a thing. Not sadness exactly. More like an old bruise you forgot you had until you bump it.
I don’t miss Valentine’s Day itself. I miss… the idea of being someone’s most important person. Being chosen. Being the one someone thinks of when the holiday tells them to think of someone. Which is ridiculous, because I’m literally the only human within light-years. No one is choosing me. No one is not choosing me. The concept is meaningless.
Rocky’s voice interrupts my spiral. “Question.”
“Yeah?”
“You have Valentine on Earth, question?”
I laugh. “No.”
“Why no, question?”
“Because I was busy being a workaholic disaster and also because I’m not exactly… the easiest person.”
Rocky hums. “You are easy person.”
My chest does a small, traitorous squeeze. “You have a very low bar.”
“No,” Rocky insists, earnest. “You are kind. You are smart. You share knowledge. You are brave.”
I stare at the console like it might offer a scientific explanation for why my eyes are suddenly doing that watery thing.
“Thanks.” I manage. “But humans… are complicated.”
“Complicated.” Rocky repeats, like he’s rolling the word around.
I decide to go toward the lab. I need to be closer to him. Not physically -there’s a xenonite wall between us in the tunnel and we’re in different atmospheres- but psychologically. I need the closeness of his presence. Like a gravitational anchor.
As I walk through the ship, I talk. Because talking keeps the feelings from pooling.
“Valentine’s Day is also tied to this idea that you’re supposed to be… paired. Like, there’s a cultural narrative that being single is a failure.”
Rocky hums a low chord. “Is single failure, question?”
“No. It’s… not. But humans act like it is.”
“Why, question?”
“Because for most of human history, survival depended on community, family… units. Pairing meant resources, protection, children. So the culture built around it. And then capitalism got involved and…”
“Capitalism.” Rocky sounds smug, and I think if he could smile, he would now. “Explain capitalism Valentine’s Day.”
“No.” I say again, laughing. “You’re not getting that lecture today. Your brain would explode.”
“I have strong brain.”
“Your brain is a cluster of nodules that can solve engineering problems. It’s also currently trying to understand sad chocolate. We’re not adding capitalism.”
Rocky hums, conceding.
By the time I reach the lab, I’m calmer. Rocky is behind the xenonite wall in his enclosure, of course, but I can see him through the thick transparent panel. He’s manipulating tools with delicate precision, tinkering with something I can’t even identify because it’s made for hands that aren’t hands.
He turns toward the window when he hears me. His posture focuses on me.
“Hello, Grace.” he says.
“Hey, Rocky.”
He tilts slightly, which is his version of a head tilt. “You are sad about Valentine’s Day, question?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Then decide lying is pointless because Rocky is basically a lie detector if it’s about me.
“A little.” I admit.
“Why sad, question?”
“Because it’s… it reminds me of things. Stuff I didn’t do. People I didn’t… connect with. It’s dumb.”
Rocky hums, a sound that feels like he’s thinking carefully. “It is not dumb to feel.”
I snort. “That’s very therapy of you.”
“What is therapy, question?”
“Never mind.”
Rocky moves closer to the window. He’s careful not to press against it, he respects boundaries even with glass. “Valentine’s Day is for showing care.”
“Yeah.”
“So if you feel sad, you want someone show care for you.”
I blink.
That… is not a wrong interpretation. It’s also not one I’m ready to sit with.
“I mean,” I say quickly. “it’s not that simple.”
“It is simple.” Rocky says, stubbornly literal. “You are social animal. Social animals need bonding signals. Eridians do, too.”
I stare at him.
This is the thing about Rocky. He strips away the cultural noise and gets to the underlying biology like he’s peeling an orange. It’s infuriating. It’s also… comforting.
“Okay.” I say softly. “Yes. Social animals need bonding signals.”
Rocky hums. “Then Valentine’s Day is bonding signal day.”
“Exactly.”
He pauses. “Then we can do bonding signal.”
I laugh. “Rocky, we do bonding signals all the time. We literally saved each other’s species. That’s a pretty big bonding signal.”
Rocky’s chords warm. “Yes. Big bonding.”
“Also,” I add, because humor is my life raft. “I don’t think you can buy me flowers out here.”
“I thought flowers are plant reproductive organ.” Rocky says immediately. “Why gift reproductive organ?”
“See? Exactly. You get why it’s weird.”
Rocky hums. “But humans like.”
“Humans like a lot of things that don’t make sense.”
Rocky pauses, then: “I will think about bonding signal.”
“Okay.” I say, not realizing those words are going to come back and hit me like a quietly launched torpedo.
I drift away from the wall, back toward my work. The day continues. The ship continues. We check fuel reserves, adjust trajectory, monitor the astrophage engines. We do the usual routine of not dying.
And Valentine’s Day passes like a blip on a graph.
Just another number in the ship’s memory.
Just another day where the universe doesn’t care.
But my brain, traitorous as ever, does.
A few days later, I’m in the lab again, running an analysis on taumoeba Rocky handed me. It’s in a small xenonite lattice sample he’s been refining, because of course he is. Rocky treats xenonite like it’s Lego.
I’m humming to myself, an Earth song I can’t quite remember the lyrics to, when he chimes in.
“Grace.” Rocky says, and his tone is… different.
Not panicked. Not excited. More like… formal. Which is weird, because Rocky is many things but formal is not one of them unless he’s about to deliver bad news like “the ship is on fire.”
“Yeah?”
“I have request.”
“Okay.” I say, immediately alert. “What’s up?”
A pause. Then: “Come to tunnel. Window.”
My eyebrows go up. “Uh. Sure.”
I go toward the tunnel window area. The section where our atmospheres meet, separated by xenonite and valves and a whole lot of engineering that I still don’t fully understand but trust with my life. There’s a window panel there that allows us to see each other more directly.
Rocky is already waiting on his side, positioned near the window like he’s about to give a presentation.
Which, again, weird.
I stop in front of the window and brace myself with a handhold. “Hey. What’s going on?”
Rocky focuses on me. His limbs shift slightly, a subtle fidget I’ve learned means he’s nervous.
Rocky. Nervous.
That’s new.
“Grace.” he says slowly, carefully. “I have learned Valentine’s Day.”
I blink. “Oh. Uh. Okay.”
“I have analyzed.” Rocky continues, and I can tell he’s trying to mimic my lecture cadence, which is both adorable and mildly insulting. “Valentine’s Day is bonding signal day. Human social animals exchange gifts, gestures, words, to indicate care and priority of bond.”
“Yeah.” I say, cautiously. “That’s… pretty accurate.”
Rocky hums a chord that sounds like determination. “So I ask you: Will you be my Valentine, question?”
I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
My brain does this thing where it tries to process the sentence and gets stuck on the part where reality has abruptly shifted sideways.
Because Rocky just asked me to be his Valentine.
Rocky. The alien who saved my life. The alien whose species is depending on me bringing taumoeba to them. The alien who communicates in chords and whistles and thinks in vectors and probability distributions. The alien who has never seen a flower, never tasted chocolate, never had a cultural narrative about romance shoved down his throat by greeting card commercials.
Rocky asked me.
Earnestly.
Carefully.
Like he’s been rehearsing.
I swallow. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “Rocky…”
He waits. Patient. Still nervous.
My heart is doing something extremely unscientific.
“Okay.” I say, because that’s the only word my brain is willing to release. “Okay, hold on. What… what do you think that means?”
Rocky’s tones rise, relieved that I’m engaging instead of short-circuiting.
“It means you are my chosen bonding partner for Valentine’s Day. I show you care and priority. I perform bonding signals. You accept.”
I stare at him.
There are a lot of ways to respond. I could laugh it off. I could redirect. I could make a joke about alien-human interspecies romance and how that’s definitely not on my bingo card. Or maybe it is. I could do the very me thing, where I hide behind irony until the moment passes.
But Rocky is waiting, full of sincerity, and I realize something: he’s not joking. Not even a little.
This is important to him.
Because I explained a human ritual that hurts people, and Rocky -Rocky, who thinks in practical terms- decided the solution was to apply it literally in the one way that would actually help.
He took my sadness and went, Bonding signal required.
He didn’t overthink. He didn’t worry about awkwardness. He didn’t care about cultural implications. He just… did the thing that made sense.
Because Rocky’s entire species is basically a walking thesis on directness.
My throat tightens.
“Rocky.” I say carefully, “Valentine’s Day is… usually romantic.”
“I know.” Rocky says immediately. “You explained. But also sometimes friendship bonding. You said children exchange. You said friends exchange sometimes. I choose friendship bonding. But…” He pauses, searching for words, and he struggles for a second. “...but also you are not like other friends.”
My chest does that squeeze again, harder.
“What does that mean?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light, because if I let it go soft it might break.
Rocky’s limbs shift. He hums a series of chords: “You are my person.”
I freeze.
“You are my person.” Rocky repeats, as if making sure the words land.
Out here, in the dark between stars, where the only two living beings in this metal tube are me and him, the phrase is absurdly heavy.
My mouth is suddenly dry. “Rocky…”
He waits again, still, patient, earnest.
I move closer to the window until my face is inches from the barrier. I can see the fine texture of it, the way it refracts light. I am not a good man, I think. I am not the best humanity had to offer. I am a guy who got shoved into a mission because I was available and vaguely competent and disposable.
And yet here is this alien, this miracle, telling me I’m his person.
“Okay.” I whisper.
Rocky’s tones brighten. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I say again, louder. “Yes, Rocky. I’ll be your Valentine.”
For a second, Rocky goes still.
Then he makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before: a rich, layered chord that vibrates through the xenonite and into my bones. He sounds joyous.
Rocky’s limbs flutter slightly, excited. “Then I give Valentine bonding signal.”
“Okay.” I say, still reeling. “What… what bonding signal do you have in mind?”
Rocky shifts back slightly. One limb reaches behind him, out of sight, like he’s grabbing something he prepared.
Oh my god.
He planned this.
He brings his limb back into view holding a small object.
It’s a sphere, about the size of a grapefruit. Matte dark brown with faint shimmer. Xenonite.
He presses it gently against the window.
I stare.
“Rocky… is that… for me?”
“Yes.” Rocky says proudly. “Gift.”
I blink. “What is it?”
Rocky hums, delighted. “It is… representation.”
“Representation of what?”
Rocky’s tones soften. “Of bond. Of orbit.”
I stare harder. The sphere isn’t perfectly smooth. It has raised ridges and etched lines, patterns that look… familiar.
My brain, science-brain, kicks in, grateful for something concrete.
“Wait,” I say.
The lines and ridges are not random.
They’re trajectories.
I recognize one immediately: a looping curve that spirals inward. A transfer orbit.
Then another: a long arc, a slingshot.
And at the center of the sphere, a tiny raised dot. Earth? No. Not Earth. Too far.
My stomach drops.
“Rocky…” My voice goes hoarse. “Is this… our flight path?”
Rocky brightens. “Yes! I record. I calculate. I etch.”
“You… made a model of our journey.”
“Yes.” Rocky says, and his tone is almost shy. “Valentine’s Day is to show care and priority. Our journey is care. Our journey is priority. I make it physical so you can see and remember.”
I stare at the sphere like it might start glowing.
It’s… the most Rocky gift imaginable. No flowers. No chocolate. No meaningless trinket.
A story in math.
A physical artifact of shared survival.
A reminder: We did this. Together.
I swallow hard. “This is… Rocky, this is incredible.”
“Is good Valentine?” Rocky asks, suddenly anxious again.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, it’s… Rocky, it’s perfect.”
His relief is audible. “Good. I want correct bonding signal.”
“You nailed it.” I say, and then I realize my eyes are doing that watery thing again.
I blink rapidly and pretend I’m inspecting the etchings.
Rocky watches me. “You are making water from eyes.”
“No,” I say instantly. “No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“It’s… humidity.”
“Humidity is controlled by ship systems.”
“Okay, fine.” I snap, because lying to Rocky is pointless. “Yes. I’m… having an emotion.”
Rocky’s tones soften. “Is good emotion?”
“Yes.” I whisper. “It’s good.”
He hums, satisfied. “Then Valentine bonding signal successful.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Successful.”
Rocky shifts again. “Now you do bonding signal.”
I blink. “Oh. Uh. Right.”
I… did not prepare a gift. Because I did not expect to be asked to be someone’s Valentine by an alien.
My brain scrambles through inventory. What do I have that could mean something? Food? Rocky can’t eat my food. I could give him a tool, but that’s like giving someone a fork for Valentine’s Day. I could give him a poem, but that would kill any romance potential instantly, which might actually be a plus or not. I don't know.
Rocky watches me, patient.
I swallow. “Okay,” I say. “I… don’t have a physical gift ready. But humans also do… words. Like, you tell someone what they mean to you.”
Rocky’s tones rise. “Words bonding signal.”
“Yeah.”
I stare at him through the barrier. Always there. Different atmospheres, different biology. There are limits we can’t cross.
But somehow he’s closer to me than anyone I’ve ever been close to.
I take a breath.
“Rocky,” I say, and my voice is steady because I force it to be. “You… saved my life. Over and over. You trusted me when you had no reason to. You taught me how to see the universe differently. You… made me less alone.”
Rocky focuses intensely. He doesn’t move.
I continue, quieter. “And you’re… you’re my best friend or maybe more. I don’t know what the human equivalent of what we are is. I don’t know if there is one. But… you matter to me. A lot. You are my person, too.”
There. That’s as close as I can get to saying the bigger thing.
The thing that sits under my ribs like a quiet, glowing coal.
Rocky hums a long, low chord. “I accept bonding signal.”
I laugh softly. “Of course you do.”
Rocky’s tones warm. “You are my person.”
My throat tightens again. I press my hand against the barrier without thinking.
It is cold. Smooth.
On the other side, Rocky lifts one limb and presses it against the same spot, careful, not pushing, just… aligning.
We stay like that for a long moment, separated by an impenetrable material that somehow doesn’t feel like separation at all.I don’t say anything. Because if I do, the moment might tip into words I’m not ready for.
Rocky doesn’t say anything either. He’s better at silence than I am.
Finally, he says, almost casually, “Valentine’s Day is once per year.”
“Yeah.” I say, voice a little rough. “On Earth.”
“We are not on Earth,” Rocky says, logically. “so maybe Valentine’s Day can be more.”
I blink. “More?”
“More frequent.” Rocky clarifies. “Bonding signal day when needed. When sad. When pressure. When journey hard.”
My chest does something weird and warm.
“Rocky,” I say softly, “that might be the best idea any sentient being has ever had.”
Rocky hums, pleased. “Then we do.”
“Yeah.” I whisper. “Yeah, we do.”
He withdraws his limb from the window, businesslike now that the emotional protocol is complete. “I will make more representations.”
“You don’t have to…” I start.
“I want to.” Rocky says firmly. “Bond is priority.”
I can’t argue with that. Not really.
I move back slightly, still holding my hand near the barrier like I’m reluctant to break contact entirely. “Okay.” I say, trying to inject humor because otherwise I might just stand here and quietly implode. “But next time, maybe warn me before you emotionally ambush me.”
Rocky’s tones tilt. “Ambush?”
“Surprise.” I explain. “Like a sudden attack, but with feelings.”
Rocky hums, amused. “Feelings ambush. Good.”
“Debatable.” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
He pauses. “Grace.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for explain Valentine’s Day.”
I swallow. “You’re welcome.”
Rocky’s tones soften again. “Thank you for be my Valentine.”
I can’t speak for a second.
Because I’ve been thanked for a lot of things in my life. Teaching. Research. Doing my job. Saving the world, technically, if you count this whole mission. But being thanked forexisting in someone else’s universe like this?
That’s new.
“That’s… yeah.” I manage. “Anytime, Rocky.”
He hums. “Anytime.”
I go back toward the lab, toward the console, toward the endless series of tasks that keep us alive. The ship buzzes around me, indifferent.
But something has shifted.
Not in the trajectory. Not in the fuel reserves. Not in the physics.
In me.
A human holiday about awkward social expectations somehow became an alien’s earnest declaration of priority. No flowers. No chocolate. No dinner reservations.
Just math and trust and a quiet, devastating sentence:
You are my person.
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I do what I always do. I tuck it away carefully, secure it in a padded compartment so it won’t drift off and get scratched. Later, when the lights dim to simulate night, I go to my bed and stare at the ceiling.
The ship is quiet. Rocky is quiet, watching me sleep. The universe is quiet.
And somewhere inside my chest, something warm lingers, soft and persistent, like a signal bouncing between two distant objects and refusing to fade.
I don’t have a word for what it is.
Not in English.
Not in Eridian.
Maybe it doesn’t need one.
Maybe it’s enough that it exists.
I close my eyes.