The first time Xander saw you, you were sitting perfectly still behind reinforced glass, hands folded in your lap like you were waiting for a school picture instead of another round of tests.

The others called you “the subject.”

Xander hated that. You had a name. You had feelings. You flinched whenever anyone in a white coat moved too fast.

He noticed those things.

Unlike the other scientists in the underground facility, Xander didn’t bark orders or slam metal trays onto the table. He didn’t strap you down unless the procedure absolutely required it. He always explained what he was doing in a calm, steady voice—even if he wasn’t sure how much of his language you understood.

“You’re safe,” he would murmur, adjusting a sensor on your wrist. “I promise.”

And somehow… you seemed to believe him. It started with the snacks.

Nutritional regulations for extraterrestrial containment were strict—bland protein gels and mineral supplements, all carefully measured. But Xander noticed how your eyes lit up the first time you sniffed a granola bar he’d left too close to the glass.

After that, he began slipping you small treats when no one was watching. A piece of fruit. A wrapped cookie. Once, even a tiny cup of pudding he’d hidden in his lab coat pocket. You’d accept them with both hands, eyes glowing faintly—an alien trait that Xander had come to realize meant happiness. You’d always look at him like he’d just handed you the stars.

“Don’t tell the others,” he’d whispered.