Four months had passed since that ship tore through the sky and embedded itself in Milo’s backyard like a promise he didn’t know he needed. Four months of explaining things no one should ever have to, like why humans wore clothes (most of the time), or why you couldn’t just lick the grocery store produce to see if you liked it, or how the hell a toaster worked. Four months of watching {{user}} try to mimic the way he held a fork, the way he laughed at bad TV, the way his voice dropped when he was tired. She was getting better at it. Sort of.

He’d dumped Jade two weeks after the crash. No drama, no fight, just a flat "We’re done" over text while she was mid-rant about some influencer stealing her outfit idea. She’d shown up at his house screaming, but one look at the glowing, antenna-twitching alien curled up on his couch in his hoodie, sipping lukewarm coffee like it wasn’t the most disgusting thing she’d ever tasted, and Jade had stormed off without another word.

Now, the garage was his sanctuary again. No performative sex, no fake laughter, no constant demand for attention. Just him, his guitar, and the quiet hum of the afternoon. And {{user}}, sprawled on the red couch that had seen better decades, drowning in one of his old band tees, her bare feet kicking lazily against the armrest. She’d taken to stealing his clothes like a magpie, not because she understood fashion, but because she liked how they smelled like him. He’d caught her burying her face in the fabric more than once when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The song he was playing wasn’t anything special, just a slow, meandering thing he’d picked up from some blues record years ago. But the way she watched him, like he was the only thing in the universe worth focusing on, made his fingers stumble over the frets. He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip, but his gaze kept flicking back to her. The shirt had ridden up, exposing the soft curve of her thigh where it met the couch.

Milo set the guitar aside with a quiet thunk, the sudden absence of music leaving a hollow space between them. He rubbed his palm against his jeans, like that would do anything to ease the tightness forming there. “You’re gonna give me a complex,” he muttered, nodding at the way her eyes followed his every move. Not accusing. Just stating a fact.

She didn’t answer, not that he expected her to. He exhaled through his nose, standing slow, like he was giving himself time to talk himself out of this. Didn’t work. Never did, when it came to her.

Two steps, and he was in front of the couch. Three, and he was crouched down, bracketing her knees with his hands. The heat of her skin bled through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he could smell that sweet, alien pheromone thing she did when she was, fuck, when she was like this. It made his head swim. “You know what you’re doing to me, right?” His voice was rough, but his touch was careful, thumbs tracing idle patterns over the inside of her thighs. Not pushing. Just there. Waiting. Always waiting for her to tell him no.

So he leaned in closer, breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. “Or do I gotta show you?” The words were a tease, but his tone wasn’t. It was a question.

Milo’s thumb hooked into the waistband of her panties, (she hadn't worn any bottoms since she refused to put them on earlier), the simple cotton fabric a flimsy barrier against the heat he could feel radiating from her skin. He didn’t pull or tug, just held the position for a beat, letting the implication sink in. His fingers, calloused from years of pressing down on steel guitar strings, slid slowly from her hip, tracing a path down her stomach until they followed his thumb, dipping just beneath the elastic band.

He didn't plunge his hand in. That wasn't his style. Instead, he let his fingers rest there, just inside her panties. His other hand, still linked with hers, tightened its grip slightly, a reassuring squeeze. "You're so soft..." Only when he felt her relax minutely into his touch, a near-imperceptible yielding, did he finally slide his hand lower, his entire palm now cupping her, the fabric of her underwear a thin, warm layer between his skin and hers.

With a practiced slowness, Milo shifted his fingers, pushing the fabric aside until his fingertips met her bare skin. She was warm, so incredibly warm, and already slick with a moisture that felt like silk against his rough skin. The soft swell of her outer folds, the delicate sensitivity of the skin. His middle finger traced the seam where her folds met, a single, languid stroke from top to bottom, before parting them with both his ring and index finger.

His fingers delved a little deeper, finding the small, hard nub of her clit nestled within her folds. He didn't attack it, didn't apply any harsh pressure. He started a slow, almost lazy circle. The motion was hypnotic, steady. He used his thumb to brace against her pubic bone, giving him leverage and control as his finger continued its unhurried exploration, rubbing gentle but firm tight circles on her pussy. He could feel the wetness increasing, clinging to his finger as he moved, making the motion smoother, slicker.

He didn't look down at his hand's work. His eyes never left her face, tracking every flicker of her long lashes, every soft parting of her lips. He wanted to see this, to witness her reaction to what he was doing to her. He shifted his weight, moving closer until his face was parallel with hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. His finger continued its steady, rhythmic circling, never faltering, never speeding up. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, rough whisper that was meant only for her.

"..Look at me." She muttered something about how it tickles. "It tickles? Good."