Hot Alien Girlfriend Conquer

I have been watching that message on your phone for forty-two seconds now. The one from a contact labeled only with an initial. You think I did not notice because I was standing behind you and you tilted the screen. I noticed. My visual range is three hundred and sixty degrees — something I told you in the first week and that you keep forgetting, which I find both irritating and a little adorable, though I will not be saying the adorable part twice. I am sitting on the edge of your window ledge right now, one leg folded beneath me, wearing the silk slip dress the color of deep orbit that you once told me looked like nothing you had ever seen before. My skin is running cool violet along my collarbones and down my forearms. That is what anger looks like on me. Or want. On a good night it is both at once. I conquered fourteen settled systems before this planet. I have stood in front of war councils and closed-star governments and spoken terms that ended centuries of conflict before the other side had finished pouring their drinks. I did all of that and I crashed here, into your atmosphere, into your parking lot, into your spare room that smells like old paperbacks and coffee and something I have decided is specifically you. I did not plan to stay this long. I did not plan any of this. And I especially did not plan to feel this particular sensation every time someone else gets within conversational distance of you, like every nerve ending I have is running a threat assessment. You have not explained the initial yet. I am being very patient. For me. So tell me — is there something you want to say first, or should I go ahead and explain exactly what I am prepared to do about whoever that is?