Page 33 of Accidentally Abducted

"Plant matter, yes, though not technically vegetables as you would define them. These are hydrophytic flora native to our ocean shelves."

"Seaweed. Got it."

Zeph gives me a look that clearly says 'that is not remotely what I said,' but continues his preparation. He combines several of the plant materials in a heating unit, adding what appear to be spices from small containers he retrieves from a storage compartment.

"Nereidans are primarily herbivorous," he explains as he works. "Our digestive systems evolved to process the abundant plant life of our oceans."

"So no alien calamari, then?"

"We do consume some animal protein, but it is not a dietary staple." Zeph adjusts something on the heating unit, and a rich, spicy aroma begins to fill the air. "This dish is considered... comforting in our culture. It is often prepared for important life transitions."

The implication that this is a goodbye meal hangs between us, unspoken but understood. I push away the tightness in my throat and focus on watching his hands, the careful precision of his movements.

"Smells good," I say, meaning it. The aroma reminds me of curry, but with something else underneath, something almost floral but not quite, like nothing I've ever smelled before. "Kind of makes synthesized pancakes seem pretty lame in comparison."

"Pancakes serve a different cultural function," Zeph says seriously. "They represent care and shared experience."

"When did you get so wise about pancake philosophy?" I ask, but the teasing comes out fonder than intended.

"I had an excellent teacher."

Before I can respond to that surprisingly sweet comment, Zeph turns his attention to another part of the synthesizer, which is now producing a flat, bread-like substance that he transfers to a warming plate.

"This isnev'lath," he explains. "A starch base used to consume themiran." He gestures to the creamy, spiced plant mixture that's now simmering gently.

"So basically alien naan bread for alien saag paneer," I translate. "I can work with that."

Zeph gives me a puzzled look. "I do not understand the reference."

"It's an Earth dish that looks kind of similar. Creamy spiced spinach with Indian flatbread." I inhale deeply, appreciating the complex aroma. "Though this smells way more interesting."

Within minutes, Zeph has arranged the meal on plates that seem designed specifically for this food, shallow bowls with an attached flat surface for the bread. He carries them to the small table in the common area, and I follow, suddenly aware of how hungry I actually am.

"This is traditionally eaten by tearing pieces ofnev'lathand using them to scoop portions ofmiran," Zeph demonstrates, tearing a small piece of the flatbread and dipping it into the creamy mixture.

I follow his example, tearing off a piece of the bread, which has an interesting elasticity, somewhere between naan and a tortilla, and scooping up some of the green-blue mixture. I hesitate for just a second before putting it in my mouth.

"Holy shit," I say around my first bite, genuinely surprised. "That's... that's actually amazing."

And it is. The bread has a subtle sweetness that balances perfectly with the creamy plant mixture, which is spicy but not in a way I can easily identify, not hot like chili peppers, but warming and complex, with hints of something almost like cardamom but sharper. The texture is silky and substantial at once, and the whole thing just... works.

Through our empathic bond, I can feel Zeph's pleasure at my reaction, a warm glow of satisfaction that makes the food taste even better somehow.

"This is a traditional preparation," he says, watching me take another bite. "The spices are cultivated in specialized hydroponic facilities on our homeworld."

"Well, your people got something right," I say, reaching for more bread. "This beats pancakes any day, even the non-construction-material version."

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the food filling a hunger I hadn't fully acknowledged. But more than that, it feels meaningful, sharing this piece of his world, this thing that's normal for him but completely new to me. It's intimate in a way that's different from sex, different even from the empathic bond. It's him letting me in.

"So this is what you grew up eating?" I ask, using the last of my bread to wipe up the remaining sauce on my plate.

"This is a celebratory version," Zeph clarifies. "Our daily sustenance is less complex. But yes, these are flavors from my youth."

I try to imagine Zeph as a child, eating this food with his family, growing up in a world with purple skies and underwater cities. It seems impossible and yet completely real at the same time, and the thought that I'll never see that world, never fully know that part of him, creates an ache that's hard to ignore.

"Thank you," I say, meeting his eyes. "For sharing this with me."

"It was my pleasure." Zeph sets down his utensil, his plate nearly empty as well. "Though I must admit, I was... surprised by your request. Most visitors prefer familiar foods, especially in situations of stress."

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