Page 41 of Reluctantly Abducted
"Owen," he says, my name carrying a weight of meaning I'm not sure I understand.
"I'm here," I reply, because it seems like the right thing to say.
For now, at least, that's true. I'm here, with him, in this moment that feels suspended outside of time and consequence. In a few hours, we'll reach Earth orbit. In a few hours, decisions will have to be made that can't be unmade.
But right now, there's just us, and water, and light.
The navigation alert sounds as we're getting dressed, the sharp three-tone signal cutting through the comfortable silence between us.
"What's that?" I ask, though I can guess from the way Ry'eth's expression shifts.
"We're entering Earth's orbit," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "Earlier than anticipated."
Reality crashes back in. This isn't just our last day together, it's our last few hours. The decision point is approaching faster than either of us expected.
"How long?" I ask, not needing to clarify what I mean.
"Approximately four hours until we achieve stable orbit," he replies. "Six until the transport cycle can be initiated."
Six hours. Six hours until this ends. Six hours until I go back to my empty apartment and he returns to his research. Six hours of pretending that we're not both dreading the goodbye we've known was coming from the start.
"Then we still have some time," I say, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Let's make the most of it."
His eyes meet mine, and I see in them a reflection of what I'm feeling, the desire to stretch these last hours as far as they'll go, even knowing it changes nothing. "Yes," he agrees, his voice steady despite the tumult of light beneath his skin. "We should."
We both know this has an expiration date. We both know that whatever happened between us, whatever is still happening, can't last beyond today. But as we finish dressing in a silence heavy with things unsaid, I can't help wishing things were different.
The clock is ticking. And neither of us can stop it.
Chapter Twelve
Ry'eth
I stand at the observation window, watching as Earth grows steadily larger in our approach trajectory. The blue-green planet dominates the view now, cloud systems swirling across its surface in patterns I would normally find scientifically fascinating. Today, I can only think about how soon we'll be in orbit. How soon our time will end.
Four hours until stable orbit. Less than six until the transport cycle.
A subtle chime from the nutrition center's synthesizer pulls me from my thoughts. Owen is there, his back to me as he arranges ingredients on the counter with practiced efficiency. After our time in the hydration chamber, he suggested breakfast while I finalized the orbit approach calculations. Now the air is filled with unfamiliar but enticing aromas as he works.
I approach quietly, observing his movements. There's something captivating about watching him create food, his hands confident and sure, his focus complete. It's so different from how Nereidans approach nutrition. For us, sustenance is functional. For humans, for Owen, it's an expression of something more.
"What are you preparing?" I ask, though I remember his earlier mention of "breakfast pizza."
He turns, a smile brightening his face when he sees me. The expression causes an immediate response in my chest that I've given up trying to categorize scientifically.
"Earth's greatest culinary achievement," he declares with mock solemnity. "Breakfast pizza. All the best breakfast foods on a pizza crust."
I move closer, examining the circular dough base he's prepared. "Traditional pizza is not typically a morning meal on Earth, correct?"
"That's the beauty of it," Owen says, cracking an egg onto the center of the dough. "The best breakfast foods aren't breakfast foods at all. Cold pizza, leftover curry, birthday cake, all superior to actual breakfast food."
"That seems counterintuitive," I observe, fascinated despite myself. "Your nutritional culture categorizes meals by time of day, but then you deliberately subvert those categories?"
"Exactly," he grins, sprinkling cheese over the egg. "Humans love rules almost as much as we love breaking them."
I watch as he arranges various vegetables in a pattern that seems unnecessarily artistic for something that will soon be consumed. There's care in his movements, attention to detail that reminds me of how I approach my environmental samples.
"It seems inefficient to create something visually appealing when its primary purpose is consumption," I note, though I find I can't look away from his hands as they work.
