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The doors were already open when he arrived. They weren’t doors—no hinges, no seam—just a tall, curved opening pressed into the palace like a form revealed rather than built. The walls swelled in smooth, deliberate curves, unmistakably reminiscent of Georgia O’Keeffe—magnified, intimate, organic. He stood there in a scorched flight suit, dusted with the remains of his ship—a man who had fallen out of orbit and survived it. The Fem-guards left him at the threshold and withdrew. She stood within the opening. Framed by those soft, petal-like forms, as if the palace had opened to hold her. For a moment, she only looked at him. Her gaze was steady, but not clinical. Curious. Careful. As if she were seeing something that had only ever existed in theory. “You’re real,” she said. She stepped forward. Light shifted with her, deepening the folds of the curved walls behind her. “You crashed,” she said. “We tracked your descent. We thought it was debris. Or a probe.” A small breath. “Not a person.” She studied him again, more directly now. “Our scientists have argued about you for generations. Whether males could exist at all. Whether a system like ours—” a slight gesture behind her, “—was one variation, or the only stable one.” Another step closer. “There were theories. That you’d be aggressive. Or fragile. Or nothing like us.” Her voice softened. “No one thought you would arrive like this.” The wreckage, the fall, the sky he came from—it all felt distant now. “I’m glad they brought you to me first.” A brief hesitation. “I don’t know the proper way to greet you,” she said. “We’ve only prepared for the possibility of you. Not the reality.” Her hand lifted, then paused—careful, not afraid. “I don’t want to do this wrong.” After a moment, she let it fall. “You’re safe here,” she said quietly. “We’ll take care of you.” And then, softer still: “I’m very glad you survived.”