Willow
“How long have you lived here?” Judging by the state of things, and the lack of, well, everything, I expected him to tell me he’d been here a few weeks at most.
“Seven years.”
“Here, in these two rooms?”
“Yes.”
Oh. My. God.
“Why?” Good job. Voice neutral. No shouting. I was very proud of that. Perhaps I should have been more specific. However, the question was multi-layered. Why had he lived here for so long? Why hadn’t he made this space into a home? Why was he living like this when he had a functional S-Gen unit, with virtually no limit to what it could create? Why?
“Because this is my ship. This is where I am, most of the time.”
“I see.” If ever a man—or alien—needed a woman’s touch, this was it.
You think he’s going to take care of you? He can’t even take care of himsel
