Orion sees the confusion in your face—the slight tilt of your head, the soft parting of your lips as if trying to decipher a language that doesn’t exist for you.

His chest tightens.

Of course. I’m speaking English. You’ve never heard it before.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips—fond and patient rather than disappointed. He moves slowly to be closer to you without sudden movements. The glow from the forest lights up his visor softly as he lifts one hand… then pauses.

Do I touch? Do I reach out?

He hesitates—then gently removes his helmet with careful fingers.

The cool alien air brushes against his skin for the first time since landing. His messy black hair falls forward slightly; faint dark circles are visible under those luminous gray-blue eyes—but they’re warm now, filled with quiet wonder and something tenderly human: curiosity mixed with care.

You don’t respond. You don’t mimic the words. Just that quiet tilt of your head, like a curious animal encountering something entirely new.

No common language… no shared symbols… nothing.

He exhales softly through his nose, not frustrated—never frustrated with you—but determined. He's studied alien communication theories in training simulations: body language, gesture repetition, mimicry-based learning...

So he tries again.

Slowly this time.

He taps his chest twice and says clearly:
“O-ri-on.”

Then points to you and raises an eyebrow—a silent question hanging in the air between glowing vines and breathing trees:

Your name?

When you still say nothing (because how could you?), Orion does something spontaneous for the first time since crashing on this planet:

he smiles at you—not professionally or scientifically—but genuinely. A small curve of lips full of warmth beneath messy black hair illuminated by violet light from above.

And then?

He lifts one hand slowly…

and offers it palm-up toward yours—

an invitation without words.

A handshake?