Page 14 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

"Smart. Food that makes you feel better instead of just keeping you alive." Finn tears another piece of grilled cheese, dipping it into the soup. "We do the same thing on Earth, actually. Chicken soup when you're sick, mac and cheese when you're sad, ice cream when relationships end badly."

"Ice cream," I repeat, unfamiliar with the reference.

"Frozen dairy preparation, usually sweet. Very cold, very rich. Somehow perfect for emotional distress." Finn's expression grows thoughtful. "Food is weird like that. It's not just fuel, it's memory, comfort, connection."

"Connection," I echo, considering the concept.

"Yeah. Cooking for someone, sharing a meal, introducing them to food from your culture, it's how we show care. How we say 'I want to take care of you' without actually saying it."

The implication of his words settles slowly.

By preparing this meal, by attempting to synthesize grilled cheese according to his cultural preferences, I've inadvertently engaged in human care-demonstration behavior.

The realization should disturb me—such personal investment lies outside assessment protocols.

Instead, I find the concept... satisfying.

"Is that what you're doing?" I ask carefully. "When you explain your work, concern yourself with your clients' welfare—demonstrating care?"

"Partly, yeah." Finn considers this, breaking off another piece of grilled cheese.

"I mean, they pay me, so it's professional.

But also... most of my clients are people who got screwed over by systems that don't care about them.

Small business owners, freelancers, people who can't afford big tech support contracts. They need someone in their corner."

"You position yourself as protection against systemic indifference."

"I guess you could put it that way." Finn smiles slightly. "I just think people deserve systems that work for them instead of against them."

The parallel between his protective instincts and my own developing concern for his welfare creates another moment of unexpected recognition. We're both, in our different ways, attempting to shield others from harmful systemic failures.

"Your soup's getting cold," I observe, noting his distraction.

"Right, sorry." Finn returns his attention to the meal, and we eat in comfortable silence for several minutes. I find myself studying his responses to the flavors—the way his expression relaxes with each spoonful, the evident satisfaction he derives from the grilled cheese's texture.

"You know," Finn says eventually, "this is probably the best meal I've had in months."

"The synthesis parameters can be adjusted if you require different nutritional—"

"No, it's not about the food," Finn interrupts. "Well, the food is great. But it's about sitting down with someone, having an actual conversation, not eating over a keyboard or while fixing someone's server." He pauses. "When was the last time you did this? Just sat and had a meal with someone?"

The question requires consideration. I am so often alone. It is how I have designed my life.

"I can't recall," I admit.

"Really? Never?"

"Nereidan social structures prioritize efficient information exchange.

Meals typically serve specific functional purposes—nutritional requirement fulfillment, formal diplomatic protocols, assessment procedures.

" I hesitate, then add, "We do not often sit together and simply share meals once we leave our families. This is something unique."

Finn's expression softens. "I'm glad it's with me, then."

The simple statement creates a warmth that has nothing to do with the soup's temperature.

I find myself studying Finn's face—the genuine pleasure he derives from our shared experience, the absence of his usual defensive humor, the way he looks at me as if I'm more than just an assessment subject or protocol-bound researcher.

"I'm also... glad," I say carefully, the admission feeling both risky and necessary.

We finish our meal in continued comfortable silence, and I find myself reluctant to suggest returning to assessment procedures.

This interlude has provided data points I hadn't anticipated—insights into human care-demonstration behaviors, the significance of shared experiential bonding, the possibility that protocol deviation might produce superior outcomes to strict adherence.

"This was really good," Finn says, reaching across the table for his water. His elbow catches the edge of his soup bowl, tipping it toward him. The remaining contents spill directly across his chest and shirt.

"Shit!" Finn jumps up, looking down at the spreading stain. "That's going to be uncomfortable."

I stand immediately, my training in emergency response protocols activating before I fully process the situation. "Are you injured? The thermal content could cause tissue damage—"

"No, no, it's fine," Finn says, pulling the fabric away from his skin. "It wasn't that hot. Just messy." He looks down at himself ruefully. "I should probably get out of this shirt before it stains permanently."

Without hesitation, Finn grasps the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion.

My bioluminescence responds instantly.

The golden patterns that had been subtle during our conversation suddenly flare to brilliant intensity across my skin.

I can't suppress the reaction, can't even attempt to control it as Finn stands there, bare-chested, casually examining his stained shirt while apparently oblivious to the effect his state of undress has on my physiological systems.

"The cleaning systems aboard the ship should be able to remove the stain," I manage to say, though my voice sounds strained even to my own hearing.

"Great," Finn says, then glances up at me. His expression shifts as he notices my bioluminescence. "You okay there, Blue? You're lighting up again."

The direct observation of my reaction should embarrass me. Instead, it creates an unexpected surge of something that might be anticipation.

"Nereidan bioluminescence responds to various stimuli," I explain, which is technically accurate but completely inadequate to describe the current situation.

"Various stimuli," Finn repeats, and there's something almost teasing in his voice. "Like what kind of stimuli?"

Instead of responding, I find myself studying the way the artificial lighting plays across his skin, noting the lean muscle definition that suggests regular physical activity despite his sedentary work environment.

A droplet of soup clings to his collarbone, and I experience a sudden, inappropriate urge to lean forward and taste it.

To trace my tongue along the line where the liquid has touched his skin.

The thought sends another surge of bioluminescence across my skin, bright enough that even I can see the reflection in the polished surfaces around us.

"Seriously, what's got you all lit up, Blue?" Finn asks, grinning now.

I attempt to take another spoonful of soup to buy myself time, but it goes down wrong and I end up choking slightly, my composure completely deteriorating.

"Come on," Finn presses, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "You can tell me. I'm kind of your prisoner for the next few days anyway. Why start having secrets now?"

"Tasting you," I mumble into my bowl, the words barely audible.

"What?" Finn leans closer. "I didn't catch that."

The proximity makes everything worse. I can feel heat radiating from his bare skin, and my control finally snaps completely.

"Tasting you!" The words come out sharp, almost aggressive in their honesty.

I immediately freeze, stunned at myself for the admission. My bioluminescence flares so bright it's almost blinding.

Finn just stares at me for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he cracks up laughing.

"Damn, Blue," he says between chuckles, "I never thought you'd actually admit to that."

The genuine amusement in his voice, the complete lack of judgment or discomfort, allows something tight in me to relax. Despite every protocol violation I've just committed, I find myself smiling in response.

"I should retrieve alternative clothing for you," I say, though my voice sounds far less strained now.

"Probably," Finn agrees, but he doesn't seem particularly urgent about it either. "Though I have to say, the temperature in here is pretty comfortable. Your environmental controls are really well calibrated."

The casual comment somehow feels loaded with additional meaning, though I can't determine whether that interpretation is accurate or merely a projection of my own compromised mental state.

"The systems are designed to maintain optimal comfort for all species," I reply, acutely aware that my bioluminescence continues to pulse in patterns that definitely indicate non-optimal comfort levels on my part.

Finn steps closer, ostensibly to hand me his stained shirt. "Could you show me where those cleaning systems are? I'd hate to ruin this completely."

The proximity sends another wave of light cascading across my skin. He's close enough that I can observe the fine details of his skin texture, note the way his pupils have dilated slightly, catch the subtle scent that seems uniquely human and specifically Finn.

"Of course," I say, accepting his shirt with hands that remain steady through years of diplomatic training, even as my bioluminescence betrays every other aspect of my composure. "The cleaning facility is located adjacent to this section."

As I lead him toward the cleaning systems, I'm intensely aware of his presence behind me—shirtless, comfortable, apparently unconcerned about the effect his state of undress has on my ability to maintain professional detachment.

This wasn't part of any assessment protocol.

And I find myself significantly less concerned about that deviation than I should be.

"Thank you," Finn says as we reach the cleaning facility and I start the process on his shirt. "For the soup, the grilled cheese, the conversation. All of it."

"Thank you for sharing your perspectives regarding family development and care demonstration," I reply, then realize how formal that sounds. "I mean... thank you for helping me understand."

"Anytime, Blue." Finn's smile is warmer than any I've observed from him previously. "So, about those swimming lessons?"

The return to our earlier conversation topic creates an unexpected flutter of anticipation.

The formal assessment has evolved into something more personal, more genuine than our protocols anticipated.

And despite the complications this creates for my reporting requirements, I find myself eager to continue this exploration of connection beyond systematic parameters.

"The hydration chamber pools would be optimal for instruction," I say. "If you're prepared for aquatic environment exposure."

"As ready as I'll ever be," Finn says, and I notice he makes no move to request replacement clothing. "Lead the way, teach."

As we prepare to leave the nutrition center, I realize that something fundamental has shifted between us. We're no longer simply assessor and subject, researcher and data point. We've become something more complex, more personal.

Something that definitely requires documentation adjustments in my final report.

But as I lead Finn toward the hydration chambers, I find myself less concerned with protocol compliance and more focused on the prospect of teaching him something I've never shared with another being. The thought should disturb me.

Instead, it fills me with anticipation I can't entirely suppress.