Page 7 of Accidentally Abducted

The pancake on the griddle starts to burn, but neither of us moves to flip it. I'm too busy processing the fact that this isn't casual alien dating, this is alien engagement.

"So you and Derek..." I start.

"Were potentially going to bond permanently, yes. If the assessment had been successful."

"And now you and I..."

"Are in the same situation," Zeph finishes quietly.

I stare at him, my brain struggling to catch up with this new information. "Zeph, are you telling me that this three-day compatibility assessment is basically a trial marriage?"

"That is... an accurate characterization, yes."

"And if we're compatible..."

"We would be offered the opportunity to formalize the bond. You would be welcome to remain here, or I could relocate to Earth, depending on our mutual preferences."

The pancake is definitely burning now, filling the air with the smell of charred batter, but I can't seem to move. "And if we're not compatible?"

"Then you return to Earth, and I..." Zeph hesitates. "I do not receive another match. The program matches each participant only once."

"Once," I echo. "As in, this is your only shot at finding a life partner through this program."

"Yes."

I finally turn off the griddle, scraping the burnt pancake into what I hope is a disposal unit. "So no pressure or anything."

"I did not mean to add pressure to the situation," Zeph says quickly. "I simply wanted you to understand the full scope of what we are assessing."

"The full scope being whether we want to get alien married after knowing each other for less than twenty-four hours."

"When you phrase it that way, it does sound rather... accelerated."

I laugh, short and sharp. "Accelerated. That's one word for it." I run my hands through my hair, trying to process this. "Jesus, Zeph. Derek really dodged a bullet, didn't he? Can you imagine if he'd said yes? He'd probably be planning the wedding and updating his Instagram bio to 'Intergalactic Influencer' by now."

"And you?" Zeph asks quietly. "Do you feel that you have... dodged a bullet as well?"

I look at him, really look at him. He's standing there in his fitted alien clothes, holding a mixing spoon like it might contain the secrets of the universe, and there's something vulnerable in his golden eyes that makes my chest tight.

Twenty-four hours ago, the most complicated thing in my life was deciding whether to text my ex about his loudupstairs renovations. Now I'm standing in an alien kitchen, having burned pancakes while discussing the possibility of permanent relocation to another planet with someone who thinks food preparation is artistic expression.

It should be terrifying. It should be completely insane.

Instead, it's the most interesting my life has been in years.

"Ask me again tomorrow," I tell him, echoing his words from yesterday. "But for the record? I'm pretty sure Derek would have been a terrible alien husband. He would have tried to optimize your food synthesizer for maximum protein efficiency."

That gets me one of Zeph's small smiles, the kind that transforms his whole face. "And you would not?"

"I would teach you to make grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies and all the foods that are absolutely terrible for you but make you happy anyway." I grin at him. "Because that's what partners do. They make each other happy, not optimal."

"Happy, not optimal," Zeph repeats, like he's memorizing the phrase.

"Exactly." I reach for the pancake batter. "Now, how about we try this again? Without the existential relationship discussions this time."

"I would like that," Zeph says, moving to stand beside me at the griddle. "Though I should warn you, I may have more questions about the artistic expression aspects of food preparation."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," I tell him, and realize that I actually mean it.

---