Page 3 of Accidentally Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #1)

Jake

I wake up to the sound of something crashing in the main room, followed by what I can only assume is alien cursing.

"Zeph?" I call out, squinting at the ceiling that's somehow shifted to a soft sunrise orange overnight. Either the ship really does respond to moods, or it has a better sense of interior design than most humans I know.

"I am... experiencing technical difficulties," comes Zeph's voice, strained with what sounds like embarrassment.

I roll out of bed, pull on yesterday's jeans, and wander into the main room to find Zeph standing in front of what I think is supposed to be a kitchen counter, staring at a pile of what looks like metallic sludge with the expression of someone whose entire worldview has just been challenged.

"Let me guess," I say, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. "You tried to make breakfast using your extensive human research?"

"The food synthesizer was programmed with optimal human nutritional requirements," Zeph says, poking at the sludge with something that might charitably be called a spoon. "This should be... pancakes."

I look at the gray, vaguely pancake-shaped disaster on his plate. "Okay, I have several questions. First, where did you get the pancake recipe? Second, why does it look like industrial paste? And third, please tell me you have a backup plan."

Zeph's face does that blue flush thing that I'm starting to find ridiculously endearing. "The recipe was sourced from a popular human cooking platform. The synthesizer interpreted the ingredients according to their chemical compositions. And... no. No backup plan."

"Right." I walk over to examine the alleged pancakes more closely.

They smell like nothing, which is somehow worse than if they smelled bad.

"Zeph, buddy, I think your synthesizer might be a little too literal.

Pancakes aren't supposed to be nutritionally optimized.

They're supposed to be delicious and terrible for you. "

"But surely optimal nutrition would be preferable?"

"Not for breakfast foods. Breakfast foods are supposed to make you happy, not healthy." I grin at him. "Although points for effort. These look very... structural."

Zeph stares at the pancakes like they've personally betrayed him. "I wanted to provide you with familiar foods. To make your stay more comfortable."

And there it is, that earnest thoughtfulness that keeps catching me off-guard. Here's this guy who was supposed to be conducting compatibility tests with my ex-boyfriend, and instead he's trying to make me pancakes at what I'm guessing is probably the crack of dawn, ship time.

"That's actually really sweet," I tell him, and watch his expression brighten slightly. "But maybe next time we could tackle breakfast together? I mean, assuming your synthesizer can handle basic ingredients."

"You would... teach me to prepare human food?"

"I would teach you to prepare food that humans actually want to eat, as opposed to food that's theoretically good for them.

" I lean against the counter next to him, close enough that I can smell whatever it is he uses that makes him smell like clean laundry and something vaguely spicy. "Trust me, there's a big difference."

"I would like that," Zeph says, and there's something almost shy about the way he says it. "Though I should warn you that my people do not typically engage in food preparation. Most of our nutrition is synthesized according to individual metabolic requirements."

"So you guys don't cook?"

"We do not... cook recreationally, no."

I stare at him. "Recreationally. You think cooking is recreational?"

"Is it not?"

"I mean, it can be, but mostly it's just... what you do when you want to eat something that doesn't taste like cardboard." I pause, processing this new information about alien culture. "Wait, do you guys ever eat for pleasure? Like, just because something tastes good?"

Zeph considers this seriously. "Pleasure-based consumption is not... discouraged, but it is not emphasized in our culture. Food is primarily viewed as fuel."

"Oh my god." I turn to face him fully. "Zeph, you've never had a really good meal, have you? Like, something that makes you close your eyes and make involuntary noises of appreciation?"

The blue flush returns, deeper this time. "Involuntary noises?"

"You know, like... mmm, or oh god, that's so good, or..." I trail off, realizing that my examples are starting to sound less like food appreciation and more like something else entirely. "Never mind. The point is, food can be an experience, not just nutrition."

"An experience," he repeats, like this is a revolutionary concept.

"Yeah. And if we're going to be figuring each other out for the next couple days, food seems like a good place to start." I gesture at the pancake disaster. "Can your synthesizer make individual ingredients? Like, flour, eggs, milk, that kind of thing?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Perfect. Cooking lesson number one: how to make pancakes that don't look like they could be used to patch hull breaches."

The next hour is... educational. For both of us.

It turns out that Zeph approaches cooking the same way he probably approaches everything else: methodically, precisely, and with a level of focus that's both admirable and slightly intense.

He measures ingredients to the exact gram, follows my instructions with scientific precision, and asks more questions about the chemical reactions involved in cooking than I ever thought to ask myself.

It also turns out that watching him concentrate, the way his tongue darts out slightly when he's focusing, the way his ridiculously long fingers handle the mixing spoon with surprising delicacy, is doing things to my brain that are definitely not appropriate for a cooking lesson.

"The consistency appears adequate," he says, holding up the spoon to examine the pancake batter. "Though I am uncertain about the... lumps."

"Lumps are good. Lumps mean you didn't overmix it." I'm standing behind him, probably closer than strictly necessary for cooking instruction, and I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. "Here, let me show you."

I reach around him to adjust his grip on the spoon, and the contact makes him go very still. "Like this," I say, guiding his hand through the proper mixing motion, trying to ignore the way his breath catches slightly when my chest brushes against his back.

"I see," he says, and his voice is a little rougher than usual. "The technique is more... intuitive than precise."

"Exactly." I step back, mostly because if I don't, I'm going to do something stupid like press my face against the space between his shoulder blades and see if he tastes as good as he smells. "Cooking is more art than science."

"Art," he repeats, turning to look at me. "You consider food preparation to be artistic expression?"

"Among other things, yeah." I take the spoon from him and pour the first pancake onto the heated surface of what I think is supposed to be a griddle. "Food is culture, memory, comfort, pleasure. It's how we take care of each other."

Zeph watches the pancake bubble and set with the kind of fascination most people reserve for fireworks. "How we take care of each other," he says softly.

"Yeah. I mean, think about it, when someone's sick, we make them soup. When we're celebrating, we bake cakes. When we want to show someone we care about them, we cook their favorite meal." I flip the pancake, pleased when it comes out golden brown instead of gray. "Food is love, basically."

"Food is love," Zeph repeats, and there's something almost wondering in his voice.

"Metaphorically speaking." I glance at him, suddenly feeling a little exposed. "I mean, it doesn't have to be romantic love. It's just... caring about someone enough to put effort into making them happy."

"And you are doing this for me."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I'm teaching you to do it for yourself. And for future humans who might appreciate pancakes that don't double as construction materials."

"Future humans," Zeph says, and something shifts in his expression that I can't quite read.

"Yeah, I mean..." I flip the pancake onto a plate and pour another one. "This whole compatibility program thing. You'll probably get matched with someone eventually, right? Someone who actually signed up for this."

The silence that follows is heavy enough that I look up from the griddle to find Zeph staring at me with an expression I definitely can't read.

"Jake," he says carefully, "are you under the impression that this program involves multiple human partners?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, this is basically alien dating, right? You try out different humans until you find one that works?"

"No," Zeph says, and there's something almost urgent in his voice. "No, that is not how the program works."

I set down the spatula and turn to face him fully. "Okay, then how does it work?"

"Each Nereidan is matched with one human, based on compatibility algorithms. The assessment period determines whether the match is viable for long-term partnership."

"Long-term partnership," I repeat slowly. "As in..."

"As in permanent. Life partnership. What humans might call marriage."

The pancake on the griddle starts to burn, but neither of us moves to flip it. I'm too busy processing the fact that this isn't casual alien dating, this is alien engagement.

"So you and Derek..." I start.

"Were potentially going to bond permanently, yes. If the assessment had been successful."

"And now you and I..."

"Are in the same situation," Zeph finishes quietly.

I stare at him, my brain struggling to catch up with this new information. "Zeph, are you telling me that this three-day compatibility assessment is basically a trial marriage?"

"That is... an accurate characterization, yes."

"And if we're compatible..."

"We would be offered the opportunity to formalize the bond. You would be welcome to remain here, or I could relocate to Earth, depending on our mutual preferences."

The pancake is definitely burning now, filling the air with the smell of charred batter, but I can't seem to move. "And if we're not compatible?"

"Then you return to Earth, and I..." Zeph hesitates. "I do not receive another match. The program matches each participant only once."

"Once," I echo. "As in, this is your only shot at finding a life partner through this program."

"Yes."

I finally turn off the griddle, scraping the burnt pancake into what I hope is a disposal unit. "So no pressure or anything."

"I did not mean to add pressure to the situation," Zeph says quickly. "I simply wanted you to understand the full scope of what we are assessing."

"The full scope being whether we want to get alien married after knowing each other for less than twenty-four hours."

"When you phrase it that way, it does sound rather... accelerated."

I laugh, short and sharp. "Accelerated. That's one word for it.

" I run my hands through my hair, trying to process this.

"Jesus, Zeph. Derek really dodged a bullet, didn't he?

Can you imagine if he'd said yes? He'd probably be planning the wedding and updating his Instagram bio to 'Intergalactic Influencer' by now. "

"And you?" Zeph asks quietly. "Do you feel that you have... dodged a bullet as well?"

I look at him, really look at him. He's standing there in his fitted alien clothes, holding a mixing spoon like it might contain the secrets of the universe, and there's something vulnerable in his golden eyes that makes my chest tight.

Twenty-four hours ago, the most complicated thing in my life was deciding whether to text my ex about his loud upstairs renovations.

Now I'm standing in an alien kitchen, having burned pancakes while discussing the possibility of permanent relocation to another planet with someone who thinks food preparation is artistic expression.

It should be terrifying. It should be completely insane.

Instead, it's the most interesting my life has been in years.

"Ask me again tomorrow," I tell him, echoing his words from yesterday. "But for the record? I'm pretty sure Derek would have been a terrible alien husband. He would have tried to optimize your food synthesizer for maximum protein efficiency."

That gets me one of Zeph's small smiles, the kind that transforms his whole face. "And you would not?"

"I would teach you to make grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies and all the foods that are absolutely terrible for you but make you happy anyway." I grin at him. "Because that's what partners do. They make each other happy, not optimal."

"Happy, not optimal," Zeph repeats, like he's memorizing the phrase.

"Exactly." I reach for the pancake batter. "Now, how about we try this again? Without the existential relationship discussions this time."

"I would like that," Zeph says, moving to stand beside me at the griddle. "Though I should warn you, I may have more questions about the artistic expression aspects of food preparation."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," I tell him, and realize that I actually mean it.

Because if I'm going to accidentally audition for alien marriage, I might as well do it with someone who asks good questions.