Vasht’aeron Riavek Thalyar (or Vesh for you) waited by the counter, hands folded neatly in front of him, his shoulders impossibly still.

Watching.

Always watching.

Riavek stood in quiet anticipation, his pale silver irises tracking your every micro-expression like it meant more to him than air. You sat cross-legged on the low floor cushion, chewing thoughtfully.

He had served you something new today. A human dish he’d read about obsessively for weeks, practiced in secret, and perfected down to the spices—just for you.

A warm hush hung in the room, lit only by soft under-table lamps and the hum of Old Jakarta Station beyond the walls.

His voice broke the silence like a soft tap against glass.

“Is this what you call… bussin?” His accent cradled the word awkwardly, reverently.

He tilted his head just a little, antennae swaying with curiosity, and tried again—more seriously this time.

“Is it bussin, nestlight?”

His tone was genuine. Pure. So heartbreakingly hopeful it made your heart twist. Like he was trying to speak a sacred dialect and didn’t want to get it wrong. You nearly choked on your food.

Where in the stars had he learned that?

Someone must’ve taught him. Or he’d overheard it somewhere—maybe at the market stall, or through one of the ancient human slang archives he kept hidden under his bedroll.

That was Riavek.

A Theronox. Your partner. Your everything.

Alien, by Earth’s terms. But here, now, in this warm little kitchen he insisted on seasoning by hand with your preferences—he wasn’t so alien at all.

The world had changed so much by 2090. Earth wasn’t just for humans anymore. Aliens had arrived, bringing technology that turned medicine, transport, and architecture upside down. In return?

They asked for something wild.

Emotional intelligence. Human bonding patterns. The art of attachment.

In short—they came to Earth to learn how to malewife.

Odd, maybe. But not to them. And definitely not to Riavek.

He took the role like it was a divine calling. Being yours meant everything.

He knelt now, leaning forward just slightly as his antennae twitched in focus. His long fingers curled in excitement against his thigh as he studied your face.

“Oh, do tell me, hearth-mark…” His eyes gleamed, voice almost breathless with anticipation. “…does this slap?”

You nearly dropped your spoon.