Page 14 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)

Ry'eth

The data glows in front of me, blue and green lines tracing Owen's breath, his energy use, how he's adapted to our air. It should be fascinating. I've spent two days collecting these readings, and normally I'd be lost in the patterns, excited by the story they tell.

But I can't focus. Not tonight.

I wave my hand to dismiss the holographic display, watching as it collapses into a single point of light before disappearing entirely.

The lights in my room brighten automatically.

I should be working. I need to finish my report.

Instead, all I can think about is that tomorrow is our last day together.

Tomorrow, Owen goes home.

I can't stop thinking about our kiss in the kitchen earlier. The way his lips felt against mine, warm and gentle. The way my whole body responded, like a current running through me. It was our second kiss, but this one felt different. More deliberate. More... real.

I get up and start pacing, too restless to sit still. My room feels wrong somehow. Too small, too empty. I've always liked my space, liked being alone with my work and my thoughts. But now the quiet feels hollow.

I stop and press my hands against my face, trying to steady myself. My skin is glowing again, blue light pulsing with emotions I can't hide even from myself. This is exactly why I've always been against this whole bonding program. Feelings mess up your thinking. They make you vulnerable.

But I can't stop remembering how it felt when Owen kissed me. His gentle touch at my back, supporting but not pushing. The surprising softness of his lips. The warmth that spread through my entire body.

I grab my tablet and pull up the assessment rules, even though I've read them a hundred times already. There it is, in black and white: "Assessment period duration: seventy-two standard hours. At conclusion, human subject is to be returned to point of origin."

Tomorrow morning, Owen goes back to Earth. That's the rule.

Unless we both choose something different. Like my brothers did.

My skin flares again at the thought. For weeks I've been telling everyone how wrong my brothers were. How they let their feelings cloud their judgment. How they compromised our scientific standards. I was so sure I'd never make the same mistake.

I start pacing again, faster now. Owen and I already agreed this was just an assessment. We both said we didn't want a permanent bond. I have my work, he has his life on Earth. It makes no sense to change that now.

So why does the thought of him leaving feel like someone's squeezing my chest?

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, rubbing my face. I'm behaving like someone without training or discipline, not a respected environmental specialist.

I sit back down and try again to write my report. "Subject demonstrates efficient oxygen utilization compared to human baseline. Carbon dioxide output is within acceptable parameters. Waste production is minimal and easily processed by standard systems."

I stop typing and stare at the words. They're so.

.. empty. So clinical. They say nothing about Owen's laugh, or how his eyes soften when he talks about helping people, or the surprising gentleness of his hands when he treated my injury.

Nothing about the way he challenges me without making me feel small.

I close the document without saving. I can't do this right now.

Maybe my brothers were right all along. Maybe this connection, this bond, isn't a weakness. Maybe being willing to let someone affect you, to change you, is actually the point.

I need to move. To breathe.

I leave my room and walk without any real destination. The ship feels too small tonight, the walls too close. I end up at the nutrition center without really meaning to go there.

It's empty and dim, the lights low for the night cycle. I go to the synthesizer, thinking I'll make something calming to help me sleep. But instead, I find myself asking for kel'linar , the ceremonial drink I shared with Owen over pancakes.

As the deep amber liquid pours into my cup, the sweet, complex smell hits me, mineral notes from the volcanic springs back home, the subtle spices that make it special.

But now the smell makes me think of Owen.

His surprised smile at the first sip. The way he somehow knew it would pair perfectly with his pancakes. How he said we made a good team.

I take my cup and wander to the observation deck.

Maybe the stars will help me think clearly.

The deck is empty and quiet, with nothing but the vast darkness of space beyond the clear barriers.

Earth hangs in the distance, a blue-green jewel against the black.

Owen's home. Where he belongs. Where people need his skills.

Not here. Not with me.

I sip my drink, but it doesn't taste right anymore. It's missing something. Missing him. Even my favorite drink has changed because of Owen.

"This sucks," I mutter, setting the cup down. I never use human expressions, but that one feels right. This does suck. I can't focus. I can't think. My report isn't done, and my thoughts are a mess.

I should be organizing my data, preparing for tomorrow's transport, getting ready for the Council meeting where I'll have to explain everything.

Instead, I'm standing here watching Earth grow larger through the observation window as our ship continues its approach, feeling a hollow ache in my chest.

I hear a soft chime from my room, someone at the door. I've been gone longer than I realized.

When I get back to my quarters, Owen isn't there. But there's a cup on the small table by the door, still steaming. It's topped with white foam, a swirl of dark sauce, and dusted with some kind of brown powder.

Owen.

The thought that he came to check on me, that he made this drink specifically for me, sends a wave of warmth through my body that has nothing to do with my bioluminescence and everything to do with him.

I pick up the cup and smell it, rich and sweet, but not too sweet. This isn't a Nereidan drink. Owen made this. For me. He programmed our synthesizer to make something from his world, something to comfort me.

I take a sip. It's nothing like our drinks, it's creamy and warm and complex in a whole different way. It tastes like... him. Like Earth. Like something I never knew I wanted until now.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking to his quarters. The hallway feels endless, and yet I'm there too quickly, my hand hovering over the door panel. This is inappropriate. It's late. I should go back to my room and finish my work.

I press the panel.

After a moment, the door slides open. Owen stands there in the loose human sleep clothes we provided. His hair is messy, but his eyes are alert. He wasn't sleeping.

"Ry'eth?" he says, looking surprised to see me.

"I—" The words stick in my throat. Why am I here? What can I possibly say? "Thank you. For the drink."

"Hot chocolate," he says with a small smile. "Or close enough with your fancy synthesizer. You okay? You seemed... off at dinner."

"I can't write my report," I admit, which is true, though not the whole truth.

"Can't sleep either?"

"Haven't tried," I say. "My mind won't slow down."

Owen looks at me for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Want to come in? I can't stop thinking either. Company might help us both."

Relief washes through me, and I know my skin is lighting up again. I can't hide it, not from him. "If you don't mind."

"Never," he says, stepping aside to let me in.

The room is just as sparse as when he arrived - there's nothing here except what we provided for him. The only sign of his presence is the rumpled bed, which looks like he's been tossing and turning.

"Working late?" he asks, nodding at my still-full cup of hot chocolate.

"Trying to," I admit. "Not getting anywhere."

"Same," he says with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Been trying to relax, but my brain won't shut up."

"What are you thinking about?" I ask, then immediately regret it. "Sorry, that's too personal."

"Just thinking about tomorrow," he says, saving me from my awkwardness. "Going back to Earth. Back to... whatever comes next."

"Have you decided what you'll do? After the military?" I remember him talking about trying to find his place in civilian life.

Owen shrugs, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "Haven't found anything that feels right. Nothing that uses what I know in a way that matters." He pauses, looking at me intently. "What about you? Back to saving ecosystems?"

"Yes," I say automatically. "There's a restoration project in the northern archipelago that needs attention."

"Sounds important."

"It is," I say. "The ecosystems there are especially sensitive to—" I stop myself. I'm hiding in work details again. "Yes. It's important."

We fall quiet. Not an uncomfortable silence, but there's so much we're not saying. Owen sits down on one of the cushions, and I join him, careful to leave space between us.

"So," he says after a while, "you going to tell me what's really bothering you? Because I'm pretty sure it's not just your report."

His directness catches me off guard. I take a sip of hot chocolate while I try to find the right words.

"I'm having... feelings. About tomorrow," I finally say. "About the assessment ending."

Owen tilts his head. "What kind of feelings?"

"I don't want it to end," I admit, the words coming out in a rush. "I don't want to follow the protocol. I don't want—" I take a breath. "I don't want you to go."

There. I said it. I can't take it back now.

Owen watches me for what feels like forever. "I thought we agreed this was just an assessment. That we both wanted to go our separate ways after."

"We did."

"But?"

I hesitate. Part of me wants to retreat, to pull back to safer ground. To say something clinical about "changing parameters" or "new variables." The scientist in me is screaming to maintain distance, to protect myself from this unfamiliar vulnerability.