Page 28 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

Tev'ra

As we finish drying off with the ship's thermal towels, I find myself reluctant to end this evening.

The pool session exceeded all expectations—not just for Finn's progress with aquatic comfort, but for the depth of trust he demonstrated.

Watching him choose connection over safety, seeing him float peacefully under artificial stars while I swam beneath him, feeling his complete faith in my presence through our empathic bond.

.. it has affected me in ways I'm still processing.

But practical considerations assert themselves. Finn needs rest, and I should review tonight's observations for my assessment files.

"I should let you get some rest," I tell him, hanging my towel on the thermal rack. "The hydration was extensive tonight. You'll likely sleep well."

Finn nods, wrapping his towel around his waist, and I begin moving toward my sleeping quarters. The logical conclusion to our evening—return to our separate spaces, process the day's experiences in solitude, prepare for tomorrow's continued assessment activities.

"Tev'ra," Finn says suddenly.

I turn back, noting the way he's standing very still, the tension in his shoulders despite our relaxing time in the pool. "Yes?"

For a moment he seems to struggle with something, his expression shifting through uncertainty before settling on determination.

"I want to sleep next to you tonight," he says quietly. "If that's... if you're okay with that."

Not a request born of desire or physical need, but something deeper. Something I've never experienced before.

My bioluminescence responds before I can control it, warm patterns flaring across my skin as I process what he's asking for. Shared sleep. Intentional vulnerability. The ultimate expression of trust between beings who barely knew each other days ago.

"You want to share sleeping arrangements?" I ask, needing to confirm I understand correctly.

"Yeah." His skin flushes slightly. "Not for sex or anything. I just... I want to be close to you."

The simple honesty of his request creates warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with physical arousal and everything to do with something I lack proper terminology for.

In Nereidan culture, shared sleep is reserved for bonded pairs, for family units, for connections that transcend casual interaction.

"I would like that very much," I tell him, and mean it more than I've meant anything in recent memory.

I take his hand—noting how perfectly his fingers fit between mine—and lead him deeper into my quarters, to the sleeping area I've never shared with another being. The platform is designed for my proportions, which means it will easily accommodate both of us.

"Can the ceiling in here do that thing with the stars?" Finn asks, looking up at the smooth surface above us.

"Of course," I reply, moving to the environmental controls. "Every chamber on the ship can display atmospheric projections."

I begin programming the Chicago stellar configuration, the familiar patterns he likely knows well. The constellation mapping appears above us—Earth's night sky as viewed from his residential coordinates, enhanced for optimal visibility.

But then Finn shakes his head. "No," he says softly. "Can I see your night sky instead? The one from your world?"

The request stops me completely. My bioluminescence flares bright enough to cast blue light across both our faces as I process what he's asking.

"You want to see my sky?" I ask, hardly believing it.

"I want to see what you grew up looking at," he says, settling on the edge of my sleeping platform. "What home looks like to you."

He's choosing my world over his own comfort. Asking to see something deeply personal, something that connects to my earliest memories and fundamental sense of home. No human has ever expressed such interest in Nereidan perspectives beyond their immediate practical applications.

I turn back to the controls with hands that aren't entirely steady, programming the stellar display for my homeworld's night sky during the season of my emergence. The Chicago patterns fade, replaced by something far more complex and beautiful.

Multiple moons materialize in different sizes, casting blue light around us. The stars arrange themselves in the patterns I memorized as a youngling, colors that don't exist in Earth's limited spectrum painting the artificial sky in purples and golds and the soft blue-white of distant suns.

"It's beautiful," Finn breathes, lying back to get a better view. "Completely alien, but beautiful."

The wonder in his voice makes my bioluminescence pulse with satisfaction. I settle beside him, close enough to feel his warmth, and point to a cluster of purple stars above us.

"The blue moons only appear during certain seasons," I tell him, my voice softer than usual. "When I was young, my creator-parents would take me to the roof gardens during these cycles to watch the way their light made the water gardens glow."

"Tell me about it," Finn says, turning his head to look at me. "About your world."

The request creates warmth that spreads through my entire nervous system. No one has ever asked me to describe my homeworld for the simple pleasure of understanding it.

I reach for the temperature controls, adjusting the sleeping platform to optimal warmth, then retrieve the thermal regulation coverings from their storage compartment. The fabric is designed to adapt to multiple body temperatures—perfect for interspecies comfort.

"Come here," I say softly, settling back against the platform and lifting the covering so Finn can join me beneath it.

He moves closer without hesitation, settling against my side as I pull the covering over both of us.

The fabric immediately begins adjusting, creating a perfect microclimate around our bodies.

Finn's skin is warm against mine, and through our empathic connection, I can sense his complete trust, his contentment at being held.

"The stars there," I say, wrapping my arm around him and pointing to a constellation with my free hand, "represent the ocean's underground rivers that connect all the water cities."

"Water cities?"

I shift closer, noting how Finn doesn't tense or pull away. "Most Nereidan settlements are built partially underwater. The architecture flows with the currents rather than fighting them. During the day, natural light filters down through specially designed canals, and at night..."

I pause, letting my fingers trace gentle patterns on his arm as memories surface. "At night, the bioluminescent gardens create pathways of light through the water. Like living stars beneath the surface."

"The moons create tides like you've never seen," I continue, my free hand tracing gentle patterns on his arm as he settles more comfortably against me under the covering.

"When all align, the waters rise so high they reach the observation decks of even the tallest spires.

Children learn to swim before they can walk properly, because during those seasons, swimming is often faster than walking. "

"Sounds magical," Finn murmurs, his body relaxing completely against mine under the warm covering.

"The largest moon controls the primary tides," I continue, noting how his breathing has begun to deepen. "But the middle moon governs the emotional currents that flow through the water itself. My people are more empathically sensitive during its full phase."

Finn makes a small sound of interest, but his responses are becoming slower, more distant. I find myself consciously gentling my voice, turning the sharing of information into something more like the lullabies of my youth.

"During storm seasons, when the winds are too strong for surface travel, we use the deep channels," I whisper. "Ancient tunnels carved by the first Nereidans, lined with phosphorescent algae that respond to movement. Swimming through them is like flying through a galaxy of stars..."

I take his hand, marveling at how perfectly it fits in mine, how natural this contact feels. Through our empathic connection, I can sense his consciousness drifting, floating between waking and sleep while my voice carries him toward rest.

This is unprecedented. I have never intentionally shared sleeping space with another being on this level.

Never wanted to watch someone fall asleep, never felt the profound satisfaction of providing comfort through presence and voice.

The assessment parameters contain no framework for analyzing these experiences.

"The coral forests grow in spirals that reach toward the blue moon's light," I continue, my thumb brushing over his knuckles as he grows sleepier in my arms. "Young ones make their first deep dives there, following the spiral paths down to where the ancient memory stones rest on the sea floor..."

Finn's breathing has settled into the deep rhythm of approaching sleep, but I continue talking, describing the tidal pools that sing in harmonies, the festivals where entire cities pulse with synchronized bioluminescence, the way water tastes different under each moon's influence.

Not because he's still actively listening, but because some primitive part of my brain insists that my voice will keep him safe, will guide him peacefully into rest.

I dim my bioluminescence to the softest possible glow—just enough to maintain a comforting presence without disturbing his sleep. Through our fading empathic connection, I can sense his absolute trust, his complete relaxation in my presence.

He has never felt safer, and somehow, neither have I.

"The way dawn breaks over water cities," I whisper as his consciousness finally slips completely into sleep, "turns the canals into liquid gold, and the whole world becomes light reflected infinitely through water..."

I continue speaking long after he's fully asleep, describing my world to someone who wanted to know it, who chose my sky over his own familiar stars, who trusted me enough to fall unconscious in my arms while I shared the most personal pieces of my identity.

When I finally stop talking, the silence is profound and peaceful. Finn sleeps deeply beside me, one hand still intertwined with mine, his breathing steady and calm under the light of my homeworld's moons.

I have never experienced anything like this.

This profound contentment, this sense of completeness that comes from sharing not just physical space but the fundamental elements of who I am.

But beneath the contentment lies something more complex—a growing dread that accompanies every peaceful moment like this.

This cannot last. In days, perhaps a week, I will submit my assessment report. The Council will make their determination about human integration potential. And Finn will return to his apartment, his clients, his isolated but efficient life, while I move on to whatever assignment comes next.

The thought creates a hollow sensation in my chest that I've never experienced before.

I have completed dozens of assessments, studied countless species, moved from assignment to assignment with professional satisfaction and personal detachment.

But the idea of watching Finn walk away, of never again seeing his face soften with trust, of never sharing moments like this. ..

I find myself holding him more tightly, my bioluminescence dimming to the softest possible glow as if keeping the light low might somehow stop time, might keep this moment from ending.

This assessment has become something entirely unplanned. And for the first time in my career, I'm not sure I'm strong enough to do what protocol requires when it's over.