Ar'Tok - Alana Khan Page 0,14
whelpie; she was a small human. But the expression on her face when she looked at him was like he was her everything. Maybe at the beginning, it was pure gratitude. But as far back as I can remember, it was much more than that. It was a deep and abiding love.
“And when Dad gazed at her, you could tell how much he loved her from a million miles away. They didn’t see each other’s differences, they saw each other’s souls.
“He was thrilled to find she was pregnant. I don’t know how other families interact—we were so isolated. But I never doubted his love for me, never wondered if he regretted taking us in to provide us love and protection.
“He made so many sacrifices to keep us safe. He was a large, gregarious male. I used to watch him on comms with his friends. He loved people and thrived as he talked and told stories. But he gave all that up to stay isolated on the Misfit with mom and me. He never wanted us tracked down by the Feds, to be sold to someone else.”
“Mom’s the one who named me. My full name is North Star. She said on Earth it’s a signal that guides people to their destination. She told me it’s a beacon of inspiration and hope.”
I breathe deeply, feeling purged, glad I told him my story.
“So you grew up nurtured and taken care of? You watched your mom and dad love each other? I’m so happy you had a childhood like that.” Ar’Tok’s words are happy, but there’s a wistful, faraway look in his eyes.
“Yes. I didn’t mind the isolation. As you can tell, being around people isn’t easy for me. Dad was a hacker. He made a great living doing jobs for hire. He always knew I’d eventually wind up vulnerable and alone, so he taught me everything I needed to know from engine repair to growing food to hacking. Mom died six years ago, and dad died two years later. I miss them every day.”
My eyes had strayed from Ar’Tok as I finished my story. Maybe it felt too intimate. I’m staring at the ceiling and feel his hand in my hair. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, assessing if I like this. It’s such a gentle touch. One of his fingers is wrapping around a strand of my hair. The feeling is tender, reassuring.
I glance at him and see it’s not his hand touching me, but his hair—one of his dreadlocks.
“Ar’Tok? Is your hair alive?”
His gaze flies to mine, then he glances at the pillow between us where a tendril of his hair wraps around mine.
He pulls away, but the slim coil grabs tighter and won’t let him get far.
“Is this a Simkin thing?” I ask. I must admit, I was so busy looking at pictures of every handsome Simkin I could find on the Database I didn’t thoroughly investigate his race.
“I don’t know,” he says, his voice quiet as we both watch his hair winding mine in a sort of embrace. It’s possibly the most touching thing I’ve ever witnessed. It’s achingly sweet and non-demanding. Is his hair showing me his feelings in a way he’s not ready or able to express?
I close my eyes and focus on the soft stroking of his hair on mine. It’s not just one tendril anymore, it’s like a hand with a dozen fingers is combing through my hair, soothing me.
“Do you call that hair?” It doesn’t seem to be the right name.
“We call it cirr.”
We fall silent for long moments. It’s wonderful that we can be comfortable with each other like this.
“Thanks for telling me about your childhood,” he says. “I like picturing you as a happy little female running through your ship.” His cirr absently stroke me. “I guess it’s my turn to share,” he says reluctantly.
“Why don’t you tell me when you’re ready? I’ll let you off the hook tonight if you agree to keep me company in bed. Is that okay?”
All of a sudden, I remember what we were talking about when the oxygenator malfunctioned. I’d put it out of my mind until right this moment. We were talking dirty to each other under the assumption we’d never meet in person. Now we’re lying inches from each other thinking of all the things we whispered about last night.
My face heats in embarrassment. The only thing stopping me from bounding out of bed and running back to my cabin is the fact that