Page 65 of Reluctantly Abducted
I select a heavily loaded chip from the middle of the pile. As I lift it, a strand of cheese stretches between it and the platter, refusing to break cleanly. Rather than feeling annoyed, I find myself laughing softly at the absurdity.
"That's it," Owen encourages, smiling broadly at my reaction. "Embrace the mess."
I bring the chip to my mouth, accepting that there's no way to do this neatly. The combination of flavors is surprisingly wonderful—the crisp corn base, the creamy cheese, the sharp spice of the peppers, the richness of the seasoned meat. Despite—or perhaps because of—the chaotic presentation, the taste is remarkable.
"Well?" Owen prompts, his eyes bright with anticipation.
"It's delicious," I admit honestly. "Though incredibly inefficient to eat."
"That's the point," he says, reaching for another loaded chip. "Some of the best things in life are messy."
I consider this as I select another chip, this one even more precariously loaded than the first. As I lift it, several toppings slide off, landing on the platter and—to my old self's horror—on my hand. A dollop of white cream lands on my finger, and I stare at it, momentarily unsure how to proceed.
"Like this," Owen says softly. He reaches across the table, takes my hand, and brings my finger to his mouth. The sensation of his lips closing around my finger sends a cascade of light rushing beneath my skin so bright it temporarily illuminates the entire room. His eyes, locked on mine as he slowly releases my finger, convey exactly what he's thinking.
"I see," I manage, my voice not entirely steady. "An efficient solution."
"I can be practical too," he says with a wink, returning to his side of the table.
We continue eating, Owen with enthusiastic abandon, me with decreasing concern for the inevitable mess. By the time the platter is half empty, I find I'm actually enjoying the freedom of not worrying about precision or cleanliness. The food tastes better for it, somehow.
"You've got a little..." Owen gestures to the corner of my mouth. When I reach up, he shakes his head. "Let me."
He leans across the table, his thumb gently wiping the corner of my mouth. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my skin glow with patches of deeper blue that I recognize as my own version of a blush.
"I missed that," he says softly. "The way you light up. It's beautiful."
"I missed you causing it," I admit, reaching out to briefly touch his face. "No one else affects me this way."
His smile at my words is worth any amount of scientific impropriety.
When we finish eating, Owen stops me as I start to clear away the mess.
"Leave it," he says, taking my hand. "I want to show you something."
"Show me something? On my own ship?" I ask, amused.
"Trust me," he says, leading me out of the nutrition center. I follow without hesitation, the mess forgotten.
He takes me to the observation deck—a small space I rarely use since its primary function is aesthetic rather than practical. As we enter, he positions me in the center of the room, then stands behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
"Look up," he says softly.
I do as instructed, taking in the vast field of stars visible through the transparent ceiling. I've seen this view many times, of course, but something about experiencing it with Owen makes it different. More meaningful, somehow.
"It's easy to get caught up in the science," he says, his voice close to my ear, "and forget to just... appreciate."
I understand what he means. I've studied stellar phenomena extensively, can name the composition of various star types, can calculate distances and trajectories. But I rarely simply... look. Appreciate the beauty rather than the data.
"It's stunning," I admit, leaning back slightly against him.
Owen's arms encircle my waist, and we stand together, looking up at the stars. Earth is visible from this angle, a blue-white sphere that seems both significant and small at the same time.
After a while, Owen guides me to the padded bench that curves along the wall. He sits and pulls me down beside him, arranging our bodies so that I'm reclining against his chest, his arms around me. The position is intimate without being sexual, a type of closeness I have little experience with but find I enjoy tremendously.
"Comfortable?" he asks, and I hear the smile in his voice.
"Very," I reply honestly, allowing myself to fully relax against him. My bioluminescence responds to his proximity with a gentle, steady glow that feels like contentment made visible.
