Page 32 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)
Ry'eth
The transport is successful, Owen and his belongings materializing perfectly on the platform. I release the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Despite knowing the technology is reliable, I find myself experiencing significant relief at seeing him safely aboard.
"Welcome back," I say, unable to keep a small smile from forming despite my attempt at composure. The memory of what occurred in his shower mere minutes ago sends waves of blue light pulsing visibly beneath my skin.
Owen grins, clearly noticing my reaction. "Good to be back," he says, stepping off the platform and looking around. His gaze meets mine, and there's a warmth there that makes my chest tighten pleasantly.
I lead him from the transport chamber toward the living quarters, finding myself walking closer to him than strictly necessary. Our hands brush occasionally, each contact sending small flares of light across my skin that I don't bother trying to suppress.
Owen sets his bag down in the sleeping chamber—the same one he occupied during his previous stay. I watch as he takes in the space, struck by how right he looks here, how the room seems more complete with him in it.
"Man, I'm starving," he says suddenly, turning to face me. "Running six miles will do that. Kitchen still in the same place?"
"Yes," I reply, finding myself smiling again at his directness. "I've made sure the synthesizer is well-stocked for human needs."
"Perfect," he says, already heading in that direction. I follow, enjoying the view of him moving confidently through my ship as if he belongs here. Because he does, a voice in my head whispers. He belongs here with you.
In the nutrition center, he turns to me with raised eyebrows. "You hungry?"
I start to say no automatically, then reconsider. "I'd enjoy sharing a meal with you," I admit, the honesty feeling strangely freeing.
His expression softens. "What would you like?"
I hesitate. During our previous time together, Owen had introduced me to several Earth foods, insisting that eating should be about pleasure, not just sustenance. The memory of his passionate explanations creates another pulse of light beneath my skin that I make no effort to hide.
"I would like..." I begin, then make a decision that feels significant. "Surprise me."
Owen's eyebrows rise briefly before a slow smile spreads across his face. "Surprise you? That's... not very scientific of you, Ry."
"I'm discovering I can be more than just scientific," I reply, the admission easier than I expected.
"I like this new side of you," he says, turning to the synthesizer with a mischievous expression. "One surprise coming up."
I watch as he inputs commands, deliberately blocking my view of the selections. His focus as he works is oddly endearing, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. After several minutes, the synthesizer produces a large platter of something colorful and chaotic.
"Nachos," Owen announces proudly, carrying the platter to the small dining area. "One of humanity's greatest culinary achievements."
I approach curiously, examining the concoction. Triangular pieces of what appear to be fried corn are piled haphazardly, covered with multiple layers of melted cheese, vegetables in various colors, and what smells like seasoned protein. The entire arrangement looks gloriously chaotic.
"This is intentionally disorganized, isn't it?" I ask, sitting across from him at the table.
"Absolutely," Owen confirms with a grin, already reaching for a piece. "Maximum deliciousness, minimum order. You eat it with your hands."
I watch with a mixture of horror and fascination as he picks up one of the triangular pieces, dragging it through the toppings and creating even more chaos in the process.
Multiple items fall off, landing back on the platter in a completely random arrangement.
The sound of appreciation he makes as he eats it, however, sends a pleasant shiver through me.
"Your turn," he says, gesturing toward the platter.
I hesitate, studying the mess before me. In the past, this level of disorder would have bothered me significantly. Now, looking at Owen's expectant face, I find myself caring less about the chaos and more about sharing this experience with him.
I select a heavily loaded chip from the middle of the pile. As I lift it, a strand of cheese stretches between it and the platter, refusing to break cleanly. Rather than feeling annoyed, I find myself laughing softly at the absurdity.
"That's it," Owen encourages, smiling broadly at my reaction. "Embrace the mess."
I bring the chip to my mouth, accepting that there's no way to do this neatly.
The combination of flavors is surprisingly wonderful—the crisp corn base, the creamy cheese, the sharp spice of the peppers, the richness of the seasoned meat.
Despite—or perhaps because of—the chaotic presentation, the taste is remarkable.
"Well?" Owen prompts, his eyes bright with anticipation.
"It's delicious," I admit honestly. "Though incredibly inefficient to eat."
"That's the point," he says, reaching for another loaded chip. "Some of the best things in life are messy."
I consider this as I select another chip, this one even more precariously loaded than the first. As I lift it, several toppings slide off, landing on the platter and—to my old self's horror—on my hand. A dollop of white cream lands on my finger, and I stare at it, momentarily unsure how to proceed.
"Like this," Owen says softly. He reaches across the table, takes my hand, and brings my finger to his mouth.
The sensation of his lips closing around my finger sends a cascade of light rushing beneath my skin so bright it temporarily illuminates the entire room.
His eyes, locked on mine as he slowly releases my finger, convey exactly what he's thinking.
"I see," I manage, my voice not entirely steady. "An efficient solution."
"I can be practical too," he says with a wink, returning to his side of the table.
We continue eating, Owen with enthusiastic abandon, me with decreasing concern for the inevitable mess. By the time the platter is half empty, I find I'm actually enjoying the freedom of not worrying about precision or cleanliness. The food tastes better for it, somehow.
"You've got a little..." Owen gestures to the corner of my mouth. When I reach up, he shakes his head. "Let me."
He leans across the table, his thumb gently wiping the corner of my mouth. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my skin glow with patches of deeper blue that I recognize as my own version of a blush.
"I missed that," he says softly. "The way you light up. It's beautiful."
"I missed you causing it," I admit, reaching out to briefly touch his face. "No one else affects me this way."
His smile at my words is worth any amount of scientific impropriety.
When we finish eating, Owen stops me as I start to clear away the mess.
"Leave it," he says, taking my hand. "I want to show you something."
"Show me something? On my own ship?" I ask, amused.
"Trust me," he says, leading me out of the nutrition center. I follow without hesitation, the mess forgotten.
He takes me to the observation deck—a small space I rarely use since its primary function is aesthetic rather than practical. As we enter, he positions me in the center of the room, then stands behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
"Look up," he says softly.
I do as instructed, taking in the vast field of stars visible through the transparent ceiling. I've seen this view many times, of course, but something about experiencing it with Owen makes it different. More meaningful, somehow.
"It's easy to get caught up in the science," he says, his voice close to my ear, "and forget to just... appreciate."
I understand what he means. I've studied stellar phenomena extensively, can name the composition of various star types, can calculate distances and trajectories. But I rarely simply... look. Appreciate the beauty rather than the data.
"It's stunning," I admit, leaning back slightly against him.
Owen's arms encircle my waist, and we stand together, looking up at the stars. Earth is visible from this angle, a blue-white sphere that seems both significant and small at the same time.
After a while, Owen guides me to the padded bench that curves along the wall.
He sits and pulls me down beside him, arranging our bodies so that I'm reclining against his chest, his arms around me.
The position is intimate without being sexual, a type of closeness I have little experience with but find I enjoy tremendously.
"Comfortable?" he asks, and I hear the smile in his voice.
"Very," I reply honestly, allowing myself to fully relax against him. My bioluminescence responds to his proximity with a gentle, steady glow that feels like contentment made visible.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the stars. I find my thoughts drifting not to scientific classifications but to how right this feels—Owen's warmth against my back, his arms around me, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"So," he says eventually, his voice a pleasant rumble against my back, "what have you been up to since I left? Besides missing me terribly, of course."
I smile at his teasing tone. "I presented my findings to the Council," I reply. "They were quite impressed with the data on human adaptability."
"Meaning they were impressed with me," Owen says, a hint of playfulness in his voice.
"Very impressed," I confirm, turning slightly to see his face. "Particularly with your medical knowledge. The Council sees significant potential benefits for our society."
"And they approved this second assessment based on that presentation?" His hand traces lazy patterns on my arm that match the flow of light beneath my skin.
"Yes, though it's technically a final assessment," I explain, covering his hand with mine. "Seventy-two hours to determine if we can form a bond."