Page 28 of Reluctantly Abducted
"And your philosophy," I say, thinking about our earlier conversation, "about leaving things better than you found them. That is... a commendable approach."
"High praise from the environmental specialist," he says with a small smile. "Now, how much longer do you need me in here for your readings?"
I check the monitoring device. "Another fifteen minutes should provide sufficient data."
"Good," he says, settling back into the water. "And then pancakes."
"And then pancakes," I agree, finding myself unexpectedly looking forward to the experience.
For the data, I remind myself firmly. This is all for the assessment.
But as I watch Owen float peacefully in the hydration pool, his body adapting to my world's atmosphere withremarkable resilience, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the scientific detachment this assignment requires.
Two more days, I think. Just two more days of assessment, and then we return to our separate lives. This strange, unexpected connection, whatever it is, will end, and the proper order of things will resume.
Why, then, does that thought create such an uncomfortable sensation in my chest?
Chapter Nine
Owen
I activate the synthesizer's heating function with practiced ease, having figured out most of the controls during my omelet-making experiment this morning. The circular platform begins to glow with a gentle warmth as I prepare to make pancakes.
"You're becoming quite proficient with our technology," Ry'eth observes, watching me measure ingredients into a mixing bowl.
"Quick learner," I reply with a small smile. "Though I still think some of these controls are unnecessarily complicated. Military equipment is designed to be intuitive under pressure. This thing..." I gesture at the multi-faceted interface, "feels like it was designed by scientists for scientists."
"It is precise," Ry'eth counters, "which is necessary for accurate food synthesis."
"I'm sure it is," I concede, stirring the pancake batter.
After our time in the pool, we've returned to the kitchen for pancakes as promised. I'm still adjusting to the new atmospheric settings Ry'eth applied to the entire ship. Each breath requires a bit more effort, but it's nothing my body can't handle.
What's more distracting than the atmospheric changes is the memory of what happened in that pool. The soft press of Ry'eth's lips against my cheek, followed by my more deliberate kiss in return. The way his skin had lit up like a living aurora, and how he'd pulled away suddenly when he realized we were both completely naked.
I focus on the task at hand, measuring ingredients into a mixing bowl. "The batter needs to be thin but not watery," I explain, hoping my voice sounds normal. "That's the secret togood pancakes. Too thick and they're doughy, too thin and they fall apart."
Ry'eth watches with that intense scientific focus of his, cataloging every movement as if preparing a research paper on human cooking techniques. I find it oddly endearing.
"While you prepare that," he says, moving to the opposite side of the kitchen, "I'll create a traditional Nereidan beverage to accompany the meal."
I look up, surprised and pleased. "You're making drinks? I thought I was handling the food."
"It seems appropriate to contribute to this cultural exchange," he replies formally, activating another section of the synthesizer. "This beverage is traditionally consumed during our solar alignment festivals."
"Sounds fancy," I say, returning my attention to the batter. "What's in it?"
"It's primarily composed of fermentedkel'linarfruit," he explains, pressing various controls with practiced efficiency. "The synthesis process creates a creamy consistency similar to what you might call a 'smoothie,' though the flavor profile is quite different."
"Looking forward to it," I say honestly, dropping a small amount of batter onto the heated surface. It sizzles satisfyingly, releasing the familiar scent of cooking pancakes.
I'm suddenly reminded of Sunday mornings from my childhood, before mom took the corporate job and dad buried himself in work. Before home became just a place to sleep between shifts. The memory is bittersweet, but not unwelcome.
As I flip the first batch of mini pancakes, a mischievous impulse strikes me. "So," I say casually, keeping my tone light, "how many people have you dated?"
Ry'eth nearly fumbles with the synthesizer controls, his skin instantly lighting up with those beautiful blue-green patterns. "I, what?"
"Dated. You know, romantically involved with?" I glance over my shoulder, enjoying his flustered reaction perhaps more than I should. "Just curious."
