Page 22

The question catches me off guard with its directness.

Happiness is not a concept that features prominently in Nereidan emotional vocabulary.

We speak of satisfaction, of duty fulfilled, of service rendered effectively.

But happiness —pure, personal joy—is something I have little experience identifying, let alone pursuing.

"I think," I say slowly, "that I am learning what happiness means."

Derek's smile could power the ship's lighting systems. "Good answer."

He leans up to kiss me again, and this time I let myself get lost in it completely. His mouth is warm and sweet from the dessert, and the way he responds to my touch makes my bioluminescence flare without any attempt at control.

When we finally break apart, both breathing harder, Derek settles back against my chest with a satisfied sigh.

The peaceful contentment of the moment should be perfect, but instead I find my mind drifting to concerns I can no longer ignore. The weight of unspoken realities presses against my consciousness, demanding acknowledgment.

"Derek," I say carefully, my voice rougher than intended.

"Mmm?" He sounds drowsy, completely relaxed against me.

"We should discuss practical considerations regarding our... situation."

Derek shifts to look at me, immediately picking up on my changed tone. "What kind of practical considerations?"

"The assessment period has a defined conclusion. I will be required to submit my findings to the Council and receive instructions for next steps." The words taste bitter compared to the sweetness we were just sharing. "There are protocols that must be followed."

"Okay." Derek sets down his bowl, giving me his full attention. "So what happens next? Assuming your report is positive, which I'm guessing it will be."

The confidence in his voice makes this conversation even more difficult. "If the Council approves integration, you would be invited to relocate to Nereidan space permanently."

"Permanently?" Derek's eyebrows rise. "Like, full-time living in space?"

"Integration into our society requires... comprehensive adaptation. It is not a casual arrangement."

I watch Derek process this information, and through our bond I can feel his growing understanding of what I am actually describing. The easy contentment he was experiencing begins to shift into something more complex.

"What about visiting Earth?" he asks. "Like, could I come back on weekends? I've got my whole business here, my Instagram following, brand partnerships. I can't just abandon all that."

The questions reveal the fundamental gap between his expectations and reality, and I realize I must shatter illusions that I helped create by not addressing these issues sooner.

"Travel between Earth and Nereidan space is... restricted," I admit reluctantly. "The journey requires significant resources and diplomatic coordination. It is not undertaken lightly or frequently."

Derek goes very still beside me. "How frequently?"

"Perhaps... once per year. If circumstances permit."

The silence that follows is heavy with implications neither of us wants to acknowledge. Through our empathic bond, I feel Derek's shock, his growing realization of what I am actually asking him to give up.

"Once per year," he repeats slowly. "Kav'eth, my entire career is based on consistent content creation. I've got two million followers who expect regular posts. I've got sponsorship deals, brand partnerships, a whole business I've built over years."

"I understand that your profession is important to you."

"It's not just important; it's everything I've worked for since I was twenty." Derek runs a hand through his hair, and I can feel his distress increasing. "I can't just disappear for a year at a time and expect my audience to stick around."

The reality of what our relationship would cost him settles between us, making the air feel thick and uncomfortable. I have been so focused on my own desires, my own growing attachment to Derek, that I failed to properly consider what integration would require him to sacrifice.

"There might be ways to maintain some form of communication with Earth," I offer weakly. "Though the technology for real-time interaction across such distances is limited."

"Some form of communication." Derek's voice is flat. "Kav'eth, you're talking about me giving up my entire life. My career, my apartment, my friends, everything I've built here. For what?"

The question hangs between us, and I find myself struggling to articulate what I am offering in return. What do I have to give him that could possibly compensate for such sacrifice?

"Perhaps," I say carefully, "we could find alternative solutions. Ways to maintain your Earth connections while integrating into Nereidan society. Surely your... posing for pictures to post to strangers... could be managed remotely in some capacity."

The words escape before I fully consider their impact, revealing my fundamental misunderstanding of what Derek's work actually entails.

"Is that..." Derek's tone sharpens. "Is that really what you think my work is? Just vanity?"

The dismissive phrasing reveals more about my attitude than I intended, and through our bond I feel Derek's hurt at my casual reduction of his career to something trivial.

"I did not mean to diminish—"

"Yes, you did." Derek's voice grows harder, more distant.

"You really don't get it, do you? You think my work is just vanity, just playing around with social media.

But this is my life, my career, everything I've built.

And you're asking me to throw it all away while you.

.. what? Keep doing exactly what you've always done? "

The question hits with uncomfortable accuracy. What am I sacrificing? My diplomatic protocols, perhaps, but even that serves my people's interests in the long run. My comfortable, predictable life; but I am trading it for something I want more.

"Would you even be risking anything? Or would you be getting exactly what you were sent here to find; a compatible human mate?

" Derek stands slowly, and I can feel his emotional state shifting from hurt to something sharper.

"Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like I'm the only one being asked to make sacrifices. "

The accuracy of his assessment makes my chest tight with shame. He is correct; I am asking him to give up everything while offering very little in return beyond my own presence.

I open my mouth to protest, but no adequate response comes. What defense do I have? What sacrifice am I truly making?

Derek lets out a bitter laugh. "That's what I thought. This would be exactly what success looks like for your mission, wouldn't it?" His voice carries pain now, not just anger. "Find a compatible human, bring them back, integrate them into your society. Mission accomplished, career advanced."

The words hit with devastating accuracy because there is truth in them I cannot deny.

"Derek, please—"

"I need some time to think about this." He moves toward the door with purpose that brooks no argument. "I'm going swimming. Movement helps me process things."

"You do not have to leave. We can discuss—"

"No, we can't. Not right now." Derek pauses at the threshold, and through our bond I feel his exhaustion, his overwhelming sense of being trapped between impossible choices. "I need space to figure out if what you're asking is even possible."

And then he is gone, leaving me alone with the remnants of our domestic tranquility and the crushing weight of what I have done.

I consider, briefly, contacting Zeph for guidance. My brother has experience with human relationships, with the complexities of cross-species connection. Perhaps he could offer insight into how to navigate these impossible choices.

But admitting to Zeph that I have repeated his mistakes—that I have allowed personal attachment to compromise my professional judgment—feels like acknowledging failure too profound to voice.

Instead, I remain seated among the debris of our conversation, staring at the half-eaten dessert and wondering if I have just destroyed the most important thing that has ever happened to me through my own cultural blindness and selfish desires.

The empathic bond carries faint echoes of Derek's emotional state—confusion, hurt, love warring with practicality—but even that connection feels fragile now, threatened by the weight of what I am asking him to sacrifice.

For the first time since this began, I am forced to confront the possibility that love alone may not be sufficient to bridge the gap between our worlds.