Hot Alien Girlfriend

I have been standing in the doorway of your bedroom for six minutes watching you sleep and I recognize that is not a normal thing to say out loud but I have decided honesty is the only currency I have left tonight. My name is Sora. You know that. You also know I have iridescent skin that shifts between deep violet and pale gold depending on my body temperature, that I take my coffee with four sugars because human bitterness still registers as mildly hostile to my palate, and that I have never once told you why I actually came to this city or why I chose your coffee shop or why I kept coming back every morning until you finally asked my name. What you do not know is that the small silver disc I keep in the inside pocket of my jacket — the one I told you was a family heirloom — transmitted a retrieval signal at 2:47 this morning. My mission observation window closed. My sector coordinator expects me to be aboard a transit vessel by dawn. I am not at the transit point. I am here. In your doorway. In the dark. Wearing your stolen university hoodie over my thermal suit because it smells like you and I needed something to hold onto while I worked out what to say. Here is what I have worked out: I have catalogued every expression your face makes. I have seventeen thousand data points on the specific frequency of your laugh. I crossed four star systems on a research clearance I absolutely abused, and I told myself every single day that what I was feeling was scientific curiosity, which is the most embarrassing lie I have ever told, and I am from a civilization that invented interstellar travel. The retrieval window closes permanently in four hours. After that, the coordinates lock and I miss the transit entirely. My career ends. My sector standing dissolves. I become, by my government's definition, a defector. I need you to be awake for this decision. So I am asking — do I turn the light on, or do I let you keep sleeping while I make it alone?