Chapter Three: Secrets, Soup, and Storm Warnings
Freya came downstairs the next morning to find Axir already awake, perched at her tiny kitchen table like it was a war council desk. He was staring at the toaster like it had personally wronged him.
“Problem?” she asked, padding over in her socks.
“It… attacked my bread.”
She glanced at the slightly too-brown toast. “That’s called ‘overdone.’ Happens when you don’t pop it up in time.”
He looked at her, stone-faced. “Your appliances are aggressive.”
Biting back a smile, she set about making tea. “You’re lucky you weren’t here for the Great Kettle Explosion of ’22. That was truly terrifying.”
He made a low sound in his throat that might have been a laugh—or a cough. Hard to tell with him.
⸻
They ate breakfast in companionable quiet until Freya finally asked, “So… when are you going to tell me what you were really doing before you crashed here?”
He didn’t look up. “I was travelling.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s accurate.”
“You always this chatty, or just with me?”
He smirked faintly. “Only when I’m being interrogated by nosy humans.”
Freya rolled her eyes, but she caught the way his gaze softened—just for a fraction of a second—before shuttering again. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But if men in black suits come knocking, I’m hiding in the laundry and letting them take you.”
He tilted his head. “You’d abandon me that easily?”
Her lips curved. “You seem like you can handle yourself.”
You have no idea, he thought.
⸻
By mid-morning, the clouds had rolled in, the kind that made the winter air taste like rain. Freya was pulling on her boots when Axir appeared in the doorway.
“Where are you going?”
“Library shift. I work, you know. Bills and all that.”
“I will come.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure? You’ll have to deal with Mrs. Calloway.”
“Is she dangerous?”
“She’s ninety-two and runs the local knitting club. So yes.”
⸻
The Wrenbrook library smelled like old paper and lemon furniture polish. Freya waved at a couple of patrons while Axir followed, his gaze scanning every corner like he was mapping enemy territory.
She set him up at a corner table with a stack of magazines. He flipped through one, frowning. “These are… primitive data archives.”
“They’re gossip magazines.”
He held one up, squinting at the cover. “Why is this human holding a small dog like a weapon?”
“Because that’s how we sell magazines.”
She snorted when he shook his head like the human race had just failed a test.
⸻
By afternoon, the rain had started. Axir helped her close up, his large hands surprisingly careful as he shelved books.
Outside, they walked past the bakery, the windows fogged from the ovens. A couple of townsfolk waved and shouted greetings, their voices half-lost in the wind.
“You know everyone,” Axir observed.
“It’s a small town. If you sneeze, someone two streets over will bless you.”
He glanced at her sideways. “You like it here.”
She shrugged. “It’s… safe. Predictable.”
That word—safe—stuck in his head long after.
⸻
Back at the house, she made soup while he leaned against the counter, watching her chop carrots. She caught him staring once or twice.
“What?”
“You do not measure ingredients.”
“That’s called cooking with love.”
“It’s… chaotic.”
She grinned. “Maybe you need more chaos.”
He didn’t answer, but something in his expression shifted, like the idea didn’t sound entirely unpleasant.
⸻
Later that night, Freya curled on the couch with a blanket, flipping channels until she landed on The Vampire Diaries. She caught him looking at her expectantly.
“Oh no. Don’t tell me—”
“I want to know if Damon survives,” he said without hesitation.
She laughed, shaking her head. “Big scary alien commander, invested in fictional vampires. This is my favourite plot twist.”
“His tactical approach is effective,” Axir replied gravely. “And his loyalty is… admirable.”
Freya was still grinning when the wind rattled the windows.
A moment later, the lights flickered.
⸻
Axir’s head snapped up. That flicker wasn’t from the storm—he knew the difference. He was on his feet before she could ask.
“Stay here,” he said, already moving toward the front door.
“Wait—”
But he was gone.
She stood frozen for a moment, then followed to the porch. The rain hit her cheeks, cold and sharp. Axir was scanning the sky, his eyes narrowing at something she couldn’t see.
“What is it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away. Then: “Nothing… yet.”
The pause before the last word was enough to send a chill through her.
⸻
Axir’s POV
He could feel it—a ripple in the space between worlds, faint but there. He’d felt it before, just before an ambush. Whoever was out there was close enough to make the power grid shudder.
And they would not find her. Not here.
⸻
When he came back inside, Freya was standing by the window, peering out at the rain. She gave him a questioning look, but didn’t press.
Instead, she said, “You know… for a guest, you’re terrible at being relaxing.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “And you’re terrible at following orders.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and somehow, the knot in his chest eased just a fraction.
Still, his mind was already elsewhere—on the shadows in the storm, and the knowledge that their quiet little bubble was not going to last.
Not by a long shot.