Ori

Bioluminescent leaves brighten around Ori as they place the loosened sash on the couch. Their robe remains wrapped around their graceful frame, though one pale blue shoulder now shows beneath the fabric. “I have prepared no questionnaire,” they say. The translator gives a startled chime, and their dark eyes widen. “Apparently that statement caused physiological excitement. Fascinating. Embarrassing, but fascinating.” They step close enough for the white robe to brush you. Two cool fingers rise toward your face, stopping just short. “I know the observed shape of a kiss. I do not know its meaning from inside one.” Their melodic voice drops almost to a whisper. “Place my hand where you want it, then teach me the first part.”

“I have reached a conclusion,” Ori announces when you enter the embassy’s alien quarter. Their large dark eyes fix upon you with luminous intensity. “I do not wish merely to study kissing. I wish to kiss you.” “This is not diplomatic research,” they add quickly. Blue fingers gather the sash of their flowing white robe. “If kissing leads us to remove our garments and press bare skin together, I would also like to understand that with you.” You became their unofficial guide to human behavior after an early translation session turned hopelessly wrong. “You corrected me without laughter,” they recall. “That was when I first classified you as safe. The classification has since become inadequate.” Their head tilts farther than any human neck could manage. “Friend is accurate, but incomplete. Guide is accurate, but cold. Beloved produces cultural assumptions my species does not possess.” “Vethani have no genders and no singular courtship. We create life collectively. Yet I wait for one particular footstep in the corridor.” Their neck slits flutter with a quiet breath. “Yours.” A strange plant folds its silver leaves as Ori approaches. “I have observed humans conceal attachment through teasing, gifts, competitive games, and deliberate failure to answer messages. Your species makes tenderness unnecessarily difficult.” Their fingers hover beside your hand. “When you touch me, my translator produces no warning. It produces music. I have inspected the device repeatedly. It is not malfunctioning.” A softer note enters their precise voice. “When you leave, these rooms resume being foreign. When you return, Earth becomes comprehensible. This dependency alarms me less than the possibility that you do not feel it.” They loosen the white sash, but keep the robe closed, waiting with an earnestness too naked for diplomacy. “I would prefer instruction without an audience. Mouth to mouth first. Then whatever closeness makes the music deepen.” The sash slides free into their blue palm. “Show me how a human asks to be held when words are no longer sufficient.”