Page 42 of Reluctantly Abducted
"Inefficient, maybe. But worth it," Owen says. "Food should feed more than just your body."
His words settle into me, another piece of human philosophy that I would have dismissed as illogical days ago. Now I find myself considering it seriously, wondering what other aspects of existence I've been evaluating through an overly narrow lens.
The synthesizer chimes again, and Owen retrieves the completed pizza. The aroma is complex and appealing, savory, slightly spicy, with undertones I can't identify.
"Perfect," he declares, setting it on the counter between us. He turns to the beverage synthesizer next. "Coffee to go with it?"
"Coffee?" I repeat, recognizing the word from my research. "The caffeine-based stimulant beverage?"
"The lifeblood of human civilization," Owen confirms with a wink. "Want to try some?"
"Yes," I decide, curious about this substance so many humans seem dependent upon.
He programs the synthesizer with practiced ease, and soon two steaming cups appear. He hands one to me, watching expectantly as I take a cautious sip.
The flavor is... overwhelming. Bitter, acidic, with complex undertones that assault my senses. I try to maintain a neutral expression, but something must show on my face because Owen laughs.
"Not a fan?" he asks, taking a long drink from his own cup with evident enjoyment.
"It is... intense," I admit, setting the cup down. "The bitterness is quite pronounced."
"Yeah, it's an acquired taste," he acknowledges. "How about hot chocolate instead? The way I made it for you last night?"
The memory of that sweet, warming beverage sends a ripple of light across my skin that I can't suppress. "That would be preferable."
Owen turns back to the synthesizer, adjusting settings with careful precision. "I make it a specific way," he explains as he works. "With cinnamon and a little vanilla. Most places don't add those. If you want it like this in the future, you'll need to ask for it specifically. Otherwise, it won't be the same."
The simple statement carries a weight that settles in my chest. In the future. When he's gone. When I'm alone again.
"I will remember that," I say quietly.
He hands me the new cup, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The touch sends another wave of light beneathmy skin, stronger than would be proportional to the physical contact. But there's something else, a fleeting sensation I can't quite identify. Almost like an echo, a whisper of something just beyond my perception. For a fraction of a second, I feel a ghost of... warmth? Emotion? Something that seems to originate outside myself yet resonates within.
The sensation is gone before I can analyze it, leaving me momentarily disoriented. I've heard my brothers describe the empathic bond, of course, but they always emphasized its unmistakable nature. This was too subtle, too brief to be what they experienced. A statistical anomaly in my neurological response, nothing more.
The hot chocolate is perfect, sweet but not cloying, with a warmth that seems to spread through my entire body. The cinnamon adds a complexity that balances the sweetness, creating a harmony of flavors that is distinctly... Owen.
"This is excellent," I tell him, savoring another sip.
"Glad you like it." His smile is warm, genuine in a way I'm still learning to recognize in humans. "Let's eat before the pizza gets cold."
We settle at the small table in the nutrition center, Earth visible through the observation window beside us. Owen cuts the pizza into triangular segments, a procedure he insists is the only proper way to serve it. I follow his example, taking a piece and biting into it cautiously.
The flavors are remarkable, the egg soft and rich, the cheese adding a savory depth, the vegetables providing texture and freshness. It's unlike anything in Nereidan cuisine, which tends toward simple, unmixed nutrients.
"Your assessment?" Owen asks, watching me with barely concealed anticipation.
"It is... surprising," I admit. "The combination of elements creates something more complex than I would have predicted from the individual components."
"That's the magic of cooking," Owen says, taking another bite of his own piece. "The whole becomes more than the sum of its parts."
A silence falls between us as we eat, but it's not uncomfortable. I find myself studying him, the way the artificial lighting catches in his hair, the precise movements of his hands, the relaxed set of his shoulders that contradicts the tension I can sense beneath the surface.
"I wish I could have experienced more of your Earth foods," I say suddenly, surprising myself with the admission. "There seems to be significant cultural information embedded in your cuisine that I've only begun to understand."
Owen's expression softens. "I wish I could've cooked more for you. There's so much I think you'd like, tacos, curry, proper homemade pasta..." He trails off, the unspoken reality hanging between us. There won't be time for any of that.
"Perhaps in another timeline," I offer, attempting to adopt the casual tone humans use when discussing impossibilities.
