Page 72 of Reluctantly Abducted
Owen's voice pulls me from my thoughts. I right myself in the water to see him standing at the edge of the pool, completely naked and seemingly comfortable with it. His hair is tousled from sleep, his expression warm as he looks down at me.
"I didn't want to wake you," I explain, suddenly aware of the increased bioluminescence beneath my skin at the sight of him. "You seemed to require additional rest."
He smiles, that particular smile that appears when I say something he finds endearingly formal. "I would have preferred waking up with you still there," he says, "but finding you here is a pretty good second choice."
Before I can respond, he dives into the water with a fluid grace that catches me by surprise. He surfaces close to me, droplets clinging to his eyelashes, his hair slicked back from his face.
"Good morning," he says, closing the distance between us.
"Good morning," I reply, feeling oddly shy despite the intimacy we shared just hours ago.
He seems to sense my unexpected hesitation, because instead of pulling me against him as I half-expected, he simply reaches out to brush a strand of wet hair from my face. "You okay?" he asks.
"Yes," I say immediately, then amend with more honesty, "I am... processing."
"Processing last night?" His hand remains near my face, a light touch against my cheek that sends ripples of bioluminescence across my skin.
"Yes." I lean slightly into his touch, allowing myself this small vulnerability. "It was more... significant than I anticipated."
His expression softens. "For me too," he admits. "I've been with people before, obviously. But that was..." He trails off, seeming to search for words. "Different. Special."
The simple acknowledgment eases something in my chest. "I find myself experiencing a strong desire to kiss you," I tell him, the directness of the statement surprising even me.
Owen's smile widens. "Well, we can't have unfulfilled desires, can we?" he murmurs, closing the last bit of distance between us.
The kiss is gentle, unhurried—nothing like the urgent passion of the previous night. His lips move against mine with careful attention, one hand cupping my face while the other finds my waist beneath the water. My own hands come up to rest on his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him.
When we part, I'm glowing brightly enough that the water around us is illuminated with blue-green light. Owen looks at me with such open affection that I feel an unfamiliar tightness in my throat.
"I made hot chocolate," I say, gesturing toward the mug on the edge of the pool. "Though it has likely cooled by now."
"We can make more later," he says, not looking away from my face. "Right now, I just want to be here with you."
"In the hydration pool?"
"Anywhere," he says simply. "As long as it's with you."
The sentiment should seem excessive, hyperbolic. Instead, it sends a wave of warmth through me that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. "I find that I share that preference," I admit.
Owen smiles, then moves away slightly, floating onto his back. "This feels amazing," he says, eyes closed as he drifts. "No wonder you need this every day."
"The mineral content provides essential nutrients that are absorbed through the skin," I explain, falling back onscientific fact out of habit. "It's particularly important for maintaining proper bioluminescent function."
"Mmm," Owen hums, clearly not particularly interested in the scientific details at the moment. "It just feels good. Like floating in the ocean, but better."
I watch him for a moment, struck by how comfortable he seems in an alien environment. Then, making a decision, I move to float beside him, our shoulders just touching as we drift together.
"This is nice," he says after a while, his hand finding mine beneath the water. "Just being here. No rush."
"Yes," I agree, surprised to find I mean it. I, who have always prioritized efficiency and productivity, am enjoying simply... being. Floating in water with no purpose beyond the pleasure of it. "It is nice."
We stay that way for some time, occasionally shifting positions but always maintaining some point of contact—a hand, a brush of legs, a shoulder. At one point, Owen pulls me against him so my back is to his chest, his arms around my waist as we float together. The position should feel constrictive but instead feels secure, grounding.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his voice close to my ear.
"The unexpected comfort of inefficiency," I reply honestly.
His laugh vibrates against my back. "Only you would phrase it that way," he says, but there's obvious affection in his voice. "Most people just call it relaxing."
