Page 37 of Accidentally Abducted

Zeph is quiet for a moment, his golden eyes studying my face as if memorizing it. His hands never still on my body, one palm sliding up my back to rest between my shoulder blades, the other tracing idle patterns on my thigh beneath the water. When he speaks, his voice is gentle, almost hypnotic.

"There are creatures in our deepest waters," he begins, pulling me fractionally closer, as if even the slightest distance between us is too much to bear, "that glow more brilliantly than I ever could. They live where sunlight cannot reach, where the water grows cold and still, and they create their own constellations beneath the waves."

I close my eyes, trying to picture it, while his fingers continue their gentle exploration of my skin, trailing across my shoulders, down my arms, back up to brush through my hair with reverent care. "What do they look like?"

"Some are small, no larger than your hand, with tendrils that trail behind them like living silk," Zeph murmurs, his fingers tracing delicate patterns along my spine as he speaks, each touch leaving trails of warmth that mirror the creatures he's describing. "Others are massive, ancient beings that have lived in the depths for centuries, their bodies transparent except for the patterns of light that pulse along their flanks."

His hand drifts up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair with gentle reverence, as if memorizing its texture. I lean into his touch, desperate for the connection, my own hands clutching at his shoulders, unwilling to let go even for a moment.

His voice washes over me, and I can almost see these creatures, can almost feel the cold, dark water and the unexpected beauty of living light. The gentle current swirlsaround us as Zeph's other hand traces the curve of my hip, his thumb making small, soothing circles against my skin.

"When I was very young," Zeph continues, drawing me impossibly closer, our foreheads touching as his words vibrate between us, "my creator-parent took me to the Deep Reaches, a canyon in our ocean floor that stretches for hundreds of kilometers."

I shift slightly in his lap, causing his breath to catch. His hands tighten reflexively, one at my waist, one still tangled in my hair, before resuming their restless exploration of my skin.

"We swam down until the pressure made our ears ache and the water turned so cold it burned," he whispers against my temple, his lips brushing my skin between words. "And there, in that darkness, we witnessed the Great Migration, thousands upon thousands of luminous beings, all moving together in patterns so complex they seemed orchestrated."

I cling to him, my fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders, my face pressed against his neck where I can feel his pulse, that strange, slightly faster rhythm that I've somehow come to find as comforting as my own heartbeat. His hands never stop moving, tracing my collarbone, brushing back a strand of wet hair from my forehead, skimming down my sides, as if he's trying to map every inch of me before time runs out.

I can feel the rumble of his voice through our connected bodies, can sense the reverence in his tone. This isn't just a story, it's a treasured memory, something precious he's sharing with me.

"Sometimes I still dream of it," he says softly, his fingers now trailing along my jawline with exquisite tenderness. "The cold and the dark and the unexpected wonder. The feeling of being very small in the presence of something ancient and beautiful."

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, trying not to cry. This is a world I'll never see, experiences I'll never share, a part of him I can only know through stories. I press myself closer to him, trying to absorb his warmth, his essence, through my skin.

"Thank you," I whisper, not trusting my voice with more.

Zeph seems to understand what I'm not saying. His arms tighten around me, one hand spanning nearly my entire back while the other cups the nape of my neck, and through our empathic bond, I feel a surge of emotion too complex to name, regret and tenderness and something deeper that makes my chest ache.

We stay in the water for what feels like hours, Zeph telling me about his world in that quiet, steady voice while his hands maintain constant contact with my skin. His fingers trace the line of my spine, brush through my hair, slide along my arms to intertwine with mine. I respond in kind, mapping the broad planes of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the sharp angles of his face, committing every detail to memory.

He describes the twin moons that create complex tidal patterns, his palm warm against my cheek as he speaks. He tells me about the floating cities that rise and fall with the seasons, his fingers trailing down my sides as if counting ribs. He explains the annual gathering where thousands of Nereidans come together to synchronize their bioluminescence in patterns that can be seen from space, his hands cradling my face as if I'm something precious.

I listen, memorizing every detail, trying to build a picture of his home in my mind while absorbing the sensation of his touch. A place I'll never visit, but that I want to be able to imagine when I'm back on Earth, alone in my apartment with nothing but memories.

Eventually, the ship's announcement breaks the spell, its mechanical voice reminding us that the transportation cycle will be ready soon. Too soon.

Zeph carries me out of the water, our bodies finally separating as he sets me gently on my feet. The loss of connection feels symbolic somehow, a foretaste of the greater separation to come. His hand lingers on the small of my back, unwilling to break contact completely, even as we dry off.

We dry off in silence, both avoiding each other's eyes, as if looking directly at our pain might make it unbearable. Zeph becomes busy suddenly, checking readings, preparing equipment, explaining the process to me in technical terms I only half understand.

"—and the molecular reconstitution occurs at the exact point of origin, ensuring spatial integrity," he's saying, his voice so formal he sounds like a different person entirely.

"Zeph," I interrupt, placing a hand on his arm. "It's okay. You don't have to do this."

He stills, not looking at me. "Do what?"

"Pretend this is just another day at the office. Pretend you're not feeling exactly what I'm feeling right now."

Through our bond, I can sense his struggle, the conflict between his training and his emotions, between duty and desire. Finally, he turns to face me, and the naked pain in his expression makes my breath catch.

"I do not know how to say goodbye to you, Jake Morrison," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Then don't," I say, reaching for him. "Not yet."

He pulls me close, and for a few precious minutes, we just hold each other, his face buried in my hair, my arms wrapped around his waist. His hands move across my back in slow, deliberate motions, as if he's creating a tactile map of me to take with him when I'm gone. I do the same, my fingers tracingthe lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the texture of his skin, committing everything to memory. I try to memorize everything, the warmth of his skin, the strange rhythm of his heartbeat, the way he smells like ocean and something spicy I can't name.

"I need to remember this," I whisper against his chest, and he responds by framing my face with his hands, thumbs stroking over my cheekbones as his golden eyes lock with mine.

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