Page 30 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

Tev'ra

We make our way to the smaller pool without speaking, both of us moving carefully as if sudden movements might shatter whatever fragile peace we've managed to create in the aftermath of our lovemaking.

Finn's hair is still mussed from sleep, and there are marks on his shoulders from my kisses that make something possessive and protective flare in my chest.

The warm water welcomes us like an embrace, and Finn settles against me immediately, his back to my chest as we sink into the shallower end where he feels safe.

I wrap my arms around him, and through our empathic connection I can feel his contentment mixing with an underlying sadness that mirrors my own.

"This is nice," Finn says softly, his voice barely disturbing the peaceful silence. "Just... floating here with you."

I tighten my arms around him, pressing my face into his damp hair.

The mineral-rich water makes his skin feel impossibly soft beneath my hands, and I find myself memorizing every detail—the way he fits perfectly against my chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the trust evident in how completely he relaxes in my arms.

"I can feel your bioluminescence," Finn continues, turning his head slightly to watch the patterns beneath my skin. "Even underwater. It's like... gentle starlight."

I look down to see the soft glow emanating from my skin, patterns of contentment and melancholy swirling together beneath the surface. "It responds to emotional states," I explain unnecessarily. "I cannot always control it when you're this close."

"I don't want you to control it," Finn says, shifting so he can turn in my arms, now facing me. "I like seeing how you feel. Makes me feel less alone in my own emotions."

I cup his face with wet hands, water droplets clinging to both our skin, and lean down to kiss him slowly. He tastes like warmth and possibility and heartbreak all at once.

When we separate, Finn settles back against me, this time sideways so he can still see my face while remaining in my arms. "Talk to me," he says quietly. "About anything. I just want to hear your voice."

So I do. I tell him about the first time I learned to swim in the deep currents, about the way bioluminescent algae follows swimmers through the water on my homeworld, creating trails of light that last for hours.

I describe the festivals where entire cities coordinate their lighting in complex patterns that can be seen from the orbital platforms, and the way young Nereidans learn to read emotional currents in the water itself.

Finn listens with the same focused attention he gave me last night, occasionally asking questions or making soft sounds of interest. His eyes never leave my face, as if he's trying to memorize every expression, every inflection in my voice.

"You miss it," he says after I finish describing the singing pools. "Your world."

"I do," I admit. "Though lately I find myself missing things I haven't lost yet."

The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Finn's expression grows soft and sad, and he reaches up to trace the bioluminescent patterns on my chest.

"How much time do we have?" he asks quietly.

I don't want to think about it. "Perhaps four hours before I receive transport authorization."

"Four hours," Finn repeats, as if testing how the words sound. "That's... not very long, is it?"

"No," I agree, my voice rougher than intended. "It is not."

We float together in silence for several minutes, both lost in our own thoughts. I find myself cataloguing every sensation—the weight of Finn's body against mine, the way his hair floats around his face in the water, the gentle current created by our minimal movements. I want to remember all of it.

"Tev'ra?" Finn's voice is hesitant, vulnerable in a way that makes me pay immediate attention.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something? And if it's inappropriate or weird, just say so."

"You can ask me anything," I assure him.

Finn takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage.

"Would it be okay if I said goodbye to your parents?

" He pauses, his voice becoming smaller.

"I've never had supportive people in my life.

Welcoming adults who actually seemed to care about my wellbeing just because I exist. Your parents made me feel.

.. valued. Like I mattered to them even though I'm just some random human they'd never met before. "

His words create an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with our impending separation and everything to do with the casual way he dismisses his own worth.

The fact that my creator-parents' basic kindness feels extraordinary to him speaks to a lifetime of emotional neglect that makes me want to gather him close and never let anyone hurt him again.

"You are not 'just some random human,'" I tell him firmly, my hands tightening on his waist. "You have become precious to them—to all of us—in ways that have nothing to do with this assessment."

"Really?" There's such hope in his voice, such careful vulnerability, that I cannot help but kiss him again. This time it's deeper, more desperate, trying to convey everything I cannot say about how much he means to me, how the thought of losing him is tearing me apart.

"Really," I breathe against his lips when we separate. "And of course you can say goodbye to them. They would be honored."

Relief floods Finn's expression, and I feel it echo through our empathic bond like warm sunlight. "Thank you. I wasn't sure if there were protocols about that kind of thing, or if it would be overstepping somehow."

"There are no protocols for what we've shared," I say honestly, pulling him closer until there's no space between us. "This entire experience has been... unprecedented."

"For me too," Finn admits, his forehead resting against mine. "I've never felt anything like this. Never wanted to hold onto something so badly that the thought of letting go physically hurts."

His honesty breaks something open in me, and I find myself kissing him again, more desperately this time. He responds immediately, his arms winding around my neck as we lose ourselves in the connection that has become as essential as breathing.

When we finally separate, we're both breathing hard, our empathic bond humming with shared emotion—love and grief and desperate need all tangled together in ways that make my bioluminescence pulse brighter.

"We should make that call," Finn says eventually, though he makes no move to leave my arms. "Before I lose my nerve."

I want to protest, to keep him here in this peaceful bubble where we can pretend time isn't running out, but I know he's right. This goodbye matters to him, and I will not deny him anything he needs in these final hours.

Reluctantly, we extract ourselves from the pool and make our way back to my quarters. I adjust the temperature controls while Finn towels off, both of us moving with the careful consideration of people trying to make routine actions last as long as possible.

When I establish the communication link, my creator-parents appear on the display almost immediately, as if they were waiting for our call.

Their expressions light up when they see Finn, but I notice the way their bioluminescence dims slightly—they can sense the approaching farewell as clearly as I can.

"Finn Sullivan," Creator-parent Vel'tha says warmly, though there's something bittersweet in their tone. "How wonderful to see you again. You look well."

"Thank you," Finn replies, settling beside me on the seating platform. I can feel his nervousness through our bond, but his voice remains steady. "I wanted to talk to you both before I go back to Earth. To thank you for welcoming me, for treating me like... like family."

Creator-parent Mor'en's expression grows infinitely gentle. "The pleasure was entirely ours, young one. You brought light to our offspring's life in ways we never expected to see."

I watch Finn's face, noting the way his expression softens at their words, the slight shine in his eyes that suggests he's fighting back emotion. Through our bond, I can feel his genuine affection for them, his wonder at being accepted so easily by people who owe him nothing.

"Your kindness meant more to me than you probably realize," Finn continues, his voice growing stronger. "I've never... I don't have family like that. People who care just because. So thank you for showing me what that feels like."

"Oh, dear one," Creator-parent Vel'tha says softly, their bioluminescence shifting to warmer patterns. "You deserve to be cared for. Never doubt that."

The conversation continues for several more minutes, my creator-parents sharing memories from our previous call, asking about Finn's time on the ship, making sure he knows how welcome he would always be in their home.

I can feel Finn relaxing more with each exchange, the genuine warmth in their voices helping to ease some of his natural hesitation about emotional vulnerability.

"We were hoping," Creator-parent Vel'tha says eventually, glancing briefly at Mor'en before returning their attention to Finn, "that we might speak with you alone for a few minutes. If that would be acceptable to both of you."

The request catches me off guard. I glance at Finn, who looks equally surprised but nods slightly, then back at my creator-parents. There's something in their expressions that suggests this conversation is important, though I cannot fathom what they might wish to discuss without my presence.

"I... of course," I say, though uncertainty makes my bioluminescence flicker with anxiety. "I will give you privacy."

Finn catches my hand briefly as I stand to leave, squeezing gently in reassurance. "It's okay," he says softly, for my ears only. "I'll be right here."

I settle near the pool area where I can give them space while remaining close enough to provide support if needed.

From here, I cannot hear the specific words being exchanged, but I can see Finn's posture, watch the subtle shifts in his expression as whatever my creator-parents are telling him sinks in.

The conversation lasts nearly thirty minutes, though it feels much longer.

I find myself pacing, my bioluminescence flickering with anxiety despite my attempts to remain calm.

What could they possibly need to discuss that requires such privacy?

Are they warning him about something? Sharing information about the assessment I'm not privy to?

Occasionally I catch glimpses of Finn's expressions—surprise, gratitude, something that might be grief or joy or both. At one point, I see him wipe his eyes, and it takes all my self-control not to interrupt and demand to know what has distressed him.

When the communication finally ends, Finn sits quietly for several moments, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he's processing something weighty. I wait, giving him the space he seems to need, though every instinct screams at me to go to him.

Finally, he stands and joins me by the pool, his eyes red-rimmed and clearly indicating he has been crying. My immediate instinct is to gather him close and demand to know what upset him.

"Are you all right?" I ask, reaching for him the moment he's within range. "What did they say to upset you?"

"I'm okay," Finn assures me, settling into my embrace with a sigh that sounds like relief and exhaustion combined. "They didn't upset me. They were... incredibly kind."

"What did they tell you?" I ask, trying to keep the question gentle rather than demanding, though my bioluminescence betrays my anxiety.

Finn is quiet for a long moment, his face pressed against my shoulder as if drawing comfort from the contact.

"They wanted to make sure I knew some things," he says finally.

"Personal things. Family things. About how proud they are of you, about how much this experience has meant to you.

.." He trails off, then looks up at me with an expression I can't quite read.

"Tev'ra, you're really lucky. To have parents like that, to grow up knowing you're loved unconditionally. .. you're incredibly lucky."

There's something in his voice that suggests the conversation covered far more than simple farewell pleasantries, but he clearly does not wish to share the details.

Through our empathic connection, I can sense that whatever was discussed has brought him both comfort and sadness—resolution, perhaps, but tinged with profound loss.

"They love you too," I tell him honestly, settling back onto the seating platform and pulling him with me. "In the short time they've known you, you've become important to them. That wasn't politeness, Finn. That was genuine affection."

"I know," Finn says softly, curling against my side. "That's part of what makes this so hard."

We hold each other as the artificial day cycle begins to shift toward evening, both of us acutely aware that our time is running out.

Soon—too soon—I will receive the communication summoning us to the transport chamber.

Soon I will have to watch Finn step onto that platform and disappear from my life forever.

The thought creates a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of protocol or professional duty can diminish. I have fallen in love with this human in the span of three days, and tomorrow I will have to pretend that connection never existed.

But for now, he is still here in my arms, still mine for these final precious hours. And I intend to hold onto every moment until the very last second I am forced to let him go.