Page 16 of Accidentally Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #1)

Jake

We spend hours in the cleansing pools, talking and not talking, touching and simply being. The countdown in my head keeps ticking, twelve hours, eleven hours, but I try to push it away, to live in each moment as if it might not be one of our last.

By the time we finally emerge, our skin wrinkled and the water slightly dimmer from absorbing some of Zeph's bioluminescence, we're both pretending that time isn't running out. It's a polite fiction, but it's the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart.

"You must be hungry," Zeph says as we dry off, his eyes lingering on me in a way that suggests he's memorizing me. "I could prepare something for our evening meal. What would you prefer?"

The question is simple enough, but I can see what he's really offering, one last normal moment, one last shared experience before everything ends. And suddenly I want more than just a meal. I want to know him, all of him, even the parts I can't keep.

"Actually," I say, "I'd like to try something from your world."

Zeph stops, a towel half-raised to his hair, his expression one of genuine surprise. "You wish to experience Nereidan cuisine?"

"Yeah, I mean, why not? Might be my only chance to try alien food that isn't synthesized to appeal to human tastes." I shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Unless it's going to poison me or something."

"It will not poison you." Zeph seems oddly touched by the request, a faint glow brightening beneath his skin. "Though I should warn you that most species find our food... unusual."

"Hey, I've eaten gas station sushi at 3 AM. My stomach is basically indestructible." I finish drying off and wrap the towel around my waist. "Besides, I want to know what you eat when you're not pretending to enjoy pancakes for my benefit."

That gets me a small smile. "I was not pretending. Your pancakes were quite acceptable."

"'Quite acceptable.' Wow. With praise like that, I should open a restaurant." I bump my shoulder against his arm, enjoying the now-familiar warmth of his skin. "Come on, show me what passes for comfort food in the big blue beyond."

The kitchen area, or what passes for one on the ship, transforms under Zeph's hands. He moves with a confidence I haven't seen before, manipulating the synthesizer controls with quick, precise movements, occasionally mumbling what sounds like corrections to the machine's settings.

"I thought you said Nereidans don't cook," I observe, leaning against the counter to watch him work.

"We do not cook recreationally," Zeph clarifies. "But all juveniles are taught basic nutritional preparation as part of our educational processes."

"So this is... what, the equivalent of alien home ec class?"

"Home... ec?" Zeph looks confused for a moment.

"Home economics. It's a class where they teach kids how to cook and sew and balance a checkbook, which, let's be honest, is way more useful than calculus for most people."

"Ah. Yes, this would be similar, though with a stronger emphasis on optimal nutritional balance."

"Of course it was," I mutter. "Heaven forbid alien children just learn to make cookies."

Zeph continues working as we talk, and soon the synthesizer produces several containers of what look like various plants, some leafy, some root-like, all in colors that range from deep purple to pale blue-green.

He arranges them on the counter and begins processing them with tools I don't recognize.

"Those are... vegetables?" I ask, fascinated despite myself.

"Plant matter, yes, though not technically vegetables as you would define them. These are hydrophytic flora native to our ocean shelves."

"Seaweed. Got it."

Zeph gives me a look that clearly says 'that is not remotely what I said,' but continues his preparation. He combines several of the plant materials in a heating unit, adding what appear to be spices from small containers he retrieves from a storage compartment.

"Nereidans are primarily herbivorous," he explains as he works. "Our digestive systems evolved to process the abundant plant life of our oceans."

"So no alien calamari, then?"

"We do consume some animal protein, but it is not a dietary staple." Zeph adjusts something on the heating unit, and a rich, spicy aroma begins to fill the air. "This dish is considered... comforting in our culture. It is often prepared for important life transitions."

The implication that this is a goodbye meal hangs between us, unspoken but understood. I push away the tightness in my throat and focus on watching his hands, the careful precision of his movements.

"Smells good," I say, meaning it. The aroma reminds me of curry, but with something else underneath, something almost floral but not quite, like nothing I've ever smelled before. "Kind of makes synthesized pancakes seem pretty lame in comparison."

"Pancakes serve a different cultural function," Zeph says seriously. "They represent care and shared experience."

"When did you get so wise about pancake philosophy?" I ask, but the teasing comes out fonder than intended.

"I had an excellent teacher."

Before I can respond to that surprisingly sweet comment, Zeph turns his attention to another part of the synthesizer, which is now producing a flat, bread-like substance that he transfers to a warming plate.

"This is nev'lath ," he explains. "A starch base used to consume the miran ." He gestures to the creamy, spiced plant mixture that's now simmering gently.

"So basically alien naan bread for alien saag paneer," I translate. "I can work with that."

Zeph gives me a puzzled look. "I do not understand the reference."

"It's an Earth dish that looks kind of similar. Creamy spiced spinach with Indian flatbread." I inhale deeply, appreciating the complex aroma. "Though this smells way more interesting."

Within minutes, Zeph has arranged the meal on plates that seem designed specifically for this food, shallow bowls with an attached flat surface for the bread. He carries them to the small table in the common area, and I follow, suddenly aware of how hungry I actually am.

"This is traditionally eaten by tearing pieces of nev'lath and using them to scoop portions of miran ," Zeph demonstrates, tearing a small piece of the flatbread and dipping it into the creamy mixture.

I follow his example, tearing off a piece of the bread, which has an interesting elasticity, somewhere between naan and a tortilla, and scooping up some of the green-blue mixture. I hesitate for just a second before putting it in my mouth.

"Holy shit," I say around my first bite, genuinely surprised. "That's... that's actually amazing."

And it is. The bread has a subtle sweetness that balances perfectly with the creamy plant mixture, which is spicy but not in a way I can easily identify, not hot like chili peppers, but warming and complex, with hints of something almost like cardamom but sharper.

The texture is silky and substantial at once, and the whole thing just.. . works.

Through our empathic bond, I can feel Zeph's pleasure at my reaction, a warm glow of satisfaction that makes the food taste even better somehow.

"This is a traditional preparation," he says, watching me take another bite. "The spices are cultivated in specialized hydroponic facilities on our homeworld."

"Well, your people got something right," I say, reaching for more bread. "This beats pancakes any day, even the non-construction-material version."

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the food filling a hunger I hadn't fully acknowledged.

But more than that, it feels meaningful, sharing this piece of his world, this thing that's normal for him but completely new to me.

It's intimate in a way that's different from sex, different even from the empathic bond. It's him letting me in.

"So this is what you grew up eating?" I ask, using the last of my bread to wipe up the remaining sauce on my plate.

"This is a celebratory version," Zeph clarifies. "Our daily sustenance is less complex. But yes, these are flavors from my youth."

I try to imagine Zeph as a child, eating this food with his family, growing up in a world with purple skies and underwater cities.

It seems impossible and yet completely real at the same time, and the thought that I'll never see that world, never fully know that part of him, creates an ache that's hard to ignore.

"Thank you," I say, meeting his eyes. "For sharing this with me."

"It was my pleasure." Zeph sets down his utensil, his plate nearly empty as well. "Though I must admit, I was... surprised by your request. Most visitors prefer familiar foods, especially in situations of stress."

"Yeah, well, I'm not most visitors." I lean back in my chair, studying him. "Besides, I figured if I only get one chance to try alien cuisine, I might as well go for the real thing, not some human-friendly approximation."

Something shifts in Zeph's expression, a subtle tightening around his eyes, a dimming of the glow beneath his skin. "Jake, there is something I must discuss with you."

The sudden formality makes my stomach clench. "That sounds ominous."

"It is a practical matter." Zeph rises and retrieves something from a storage compartment, returning with a small, metallic container about the size of a pill bottle. "I realize your unexpected absence from Earth will have professional consequences."

It takes me a second to process what he's saying. "Wait, are you worried about my job?"

"Your employment as a... barista, correct? A three-day unexplained absence would likely result in termination."

I can't help it, I laugh. It's absurd, sitting here nine hours from saying goodbye forever to the most incredible person I've ever met, and he's worried about my crappy coffee shop job.

"Zeph, I really don't care about getting fired. Trust me, there are plenty of other places that will pay me minimum wage to make overpriced coffee for grumpy people."