Page 29 of Accidentally Abducted

"Do I?" Jake rights himself in the water, facing me fully now. "Because it feels like you've been pulling away since I woke up. Like you've already decided this is over."

"It has to be over," I say, the words painful to speak aloud. "In fourteen hours, you return to Earth. I submit my recommendation to the Council. That is the protocol."

"Protocol," Jake repeats, the word heavy with something like disappointment. "Always back to protocol."

I do not know how to respond to this. He is not wrong, I have been retreating behind formality and duty because the alternative is to acknowledge the growing ache at the thought of his departure.

Jake moves closer again, the water rippling around him. Through our empathic bond, I can feel a complex mixture of emotions, frustration, sadness, longing, and something deeper that neither of us has named aloud.

"I can feel you," he says quietly. "Through this bond we've formed. I can sense your sadness underneath all that Nereidan composure."

I look away, unable to meet his gaze. "The empathic bond was unexpected. It typically requires more time to develop this level of sensitivity."

"But it is. And it's telling me that you don't want me to go any more than I want to leave."

His admission hits me with unexpected force. I had not allowed myself to consider that Jake might be equally reluctant to end our time together. "You... do not wish to return to Earth?"

Jake laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Return to what, exactly? My crappy apartment? My job making coffee for ungrateful customers? My ex-boyfriend renovating the apartment upstairs? There's not exactly a lot pulling me back."

"But your life is there," I insist, even as something hopeful and dangerous begins to unfurl in my chest. "Your species. Your home."

"Home is relative," Jake says, moving so close that our bodies nearly touch in the water. "I've felt more at home in the last three days than I have in years."

The glow beneath my skin brightens at his words, betraying the surge of emotion they provoke. "Jake, I cannot—"

"Cannot what?" He reaches out, trailing his fingers along my arm, leaving trails of brighter luminescence in their wake. "Cannot admit that you'd keep me if you could?"

"That is not my decision to make," I say, though the words feel hollow even to me.

"But if it was?" Jake presses, his hand moving to rest on my chest, directly over the brightest point of my bioluminescence. "If it was just up to you, no Council, no protocol, no duty. Would you want me to stay?"

I should lie. I should maintain professional distance. I should remember my responsibility to my people.

But with his hand on my skin and his eyes holding mine and the empathic bond thrumming between us, I cannot bring myself to speak anything but truth.

"If the choice were mine alone," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, "I would keep you with me always."

The admission hangs between us, as tangible as the water surrounding our bodies. Jake's expression softens, and through our connection, I feel a surge of something warm and bright.

"That's all I needed to hear," he says, and then he's kissing me, his body pressing against mine in the warm water.

I should resist. I should remember the countdown. I should focus on the assessment.

Instead, I pull him closer, one hand tangling in his hair while the other traces the curve of his spine. The kiss deepens, and I taste the coffee on his tongue, bitter and sweet at once, like this moment between us.

When we finally part, both breathing harder, Jake rests his forehead against mine. "We still have fourteen hours," he says. "Let's not waste them by pretending we don't care."

"What happens when the fourteen hours are over?" I ask, the question that has been haunting me since I woke.

Jake is quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin that make my bioluminescence flare and pulse. "I don't know," he admits finally. "I just know I'm not ready to say goodbye."

The admission both soothes and sharpens the ache in my chest. "Nor am I."

We float together in silence, the gentle current of the pool swirling around us. Jake's head rests on my shoulder, his body partially supported by mine, our empathic connection humming with emotions too complex to name.

"Tell me about your world," Jake says suddenly. "Not the official research stuff. Tell me what you love about it."

The request surprises me. No one has ever asked what I love about my homeworld. It is simply... home. But as I consider the question, I find myself wanting to share these things with Jake.

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