Chapter One: Tea, Peter Pan, and a Very Grumpy Alien
Freya Ellis thought the worst thing that could happen today was running out of tea. Then an alien fell from the sky and made it very clear she was now his problem.
The man—if you could call him that—was built like every space opera’s brooding antihero. Long dark hair, golden eyes, sharp cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass. He introduced himself in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder.
“I am Hook.”
Freya had been trying not to stare at the fact that his clothes were half-singed and there was an actual smoking crater in her backyard. “Hook? Like… Captain Hook?”
“I am not a captain,” he said flatly.
Curiosity got the better of her. “Where’d you even get the name Hook?”
“In my travels, I tapped into various entertainment transmissions from other planets. I came across a story from your world. Hook sounded strong. Commanding.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Do you… know how that story ends?”
His brow furrowed.
“He’s the villain. The bad guy. A name parents use to scare children.”
That got a flicker of embarrassment from him, quickly smoothed away. “I see. Then you may use my true name: Axir.”
“Axir,” she repeated, testing the syllables. “Alright. But just so you know, you’d make a terrible pirate.”
That earned her a deep, unimpressed stare.
⸻
They fell into a strange sort of truce. Axir explained he had a universal language chip, capable of detecting millions of languages across the universe, but didn’t elaborate on what exactly had brought him here—or why his ship had been in flames when she found him.
By nightfall, she’d insisted he stay indoors to rest, setting him up on her couch with a blanket and some leftover stew.
“What is this?” he asked, eyeing the bowl suspiciously.
“Food.”
“It smells… complex.”
“It’s beef stew, not a quantum equation. Eat it.”
⸻
By the second day, she had him watching The Vampire Diaries.
“I do not understand this,” Axir said, narrowing his eyes at the screen.
“It’s just supernatural romance. Brooding vampires. Moral dilemmas. You’ll get it.”
“Why is the one called Damon allowed near anyone? He is dangerous. Irrational.”
Freya smirked. “Says the guy who crash-landed in my yard and won’t tell me why.”
He ignored that, but he didn’t leave the couch.
⸻
By the week’s end, their conversations had settled into a strange, comfortable rhythm—like two mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow fit. Freya would chatter, tease, or launch into long explanations of human customs, while Axir responded with grumbles, puzzled frowns, or maddeningly curt one-word answers.
And yet… he never left the room.
“Tea is a sacred morning ritual,” she told him one day as she poured a steaming mug. “You don’t just drink it. You savour it.”
“It is… boiled leaves,” he replied without looking up from the strange glowing device he’d been tinkering with.
“Boiled leaves that keep me from committing murder before 9 a.m.,” she said, arching a brow.
That earned her the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile, but not quite.
Another time, she was explaining why Earth had so many forks. “You have a salad fork, a dinner fork, a dessert fork—”
“That is inefficient. One fork. Strong metal. Durable.”
“Right, because space people don’t care if their cheesecake tastes like garlic bread.”
His golden eyes flicked to hers, as if weighing whether she’d just insulted him. “…Garlic is… acceptable.”
She started reading to him in the evenings, partly to see if she could crack his impassive exterior. One night she read a passage from Pride and Prejudice.
“This Darcy guy,” Axir interrupted, “he speaks little, observes much, and only acts when necessary.”
Freya smirked. “Let me guess—you like him.”
“I find him… tolerable.”
It took her a few days to understand: his grumpiness wasn’t coldness. It was caution. Every glance, every measured word was him quietly assessing her, deciding how much of himself to reveal.
And maybe… just maybe… she liked the challenge of peeling back those guarded layers, one sarcastic comment at a time.
⸻
On the sixth day, Freya caught him staring out the window at the night sky. “Homesick?” she asked softly.
His gaze didn’t shift. “Home is… complicated.”
She didn’t push. Instead, she set a cup of tea beside him. “Then drink. It won’t solve your problems, but it might keep you from scowling them to death.”
For the first time, he actually chuckled—a low, surprised sound that made her wonder just how many walls she could break down if she kept at it.
