Page 56 of Technically Abducted
I turn back, noting the way he's standing very still, the tension in his shoulders despite our relaxing time in the pool. "Yes?"
For a moment he seems to struggle with something, his expression shifting through uncertainty before settling on determination.
"I want to sleep next to you tonight," he says quietly. "If that's... if you're okay with that."
Not a request born of desire or physical need, but something deeper. Something I've never experienced before.
My bioluminescence responds before I can control it, warm patterns flaring across my skin as I process what he's asking for. Shared sleep. Intentional vulnerability. The ultimate expression of trust between beings who barely knew each other days ago.
"You want to share sleeping arrangements?" I ask, needing to confirm I understand correctly.
"Yeah." His skin flushes slightly. "Not for sex or anything. I just... I want to be close to you."
The simple honesty of his request creates warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with physical arousal and everything to do with something I lack proper terminology for. In Nereidan culture, shared sleep is reserved for bonded pairs, for family units, for connections that transcend casual interaction.
"I would like that very much," I tell him, and mean it more than I've meant anything in recent memory.
I take his hand—noting how perfectly his fingers fit between mine—and lead him deeper into my quarters, to the sleeping area I've never shared with another being. The platform is designed for my proportions, which means it will easily accommodate both of us.
"Can the ceiling in here do that thing with the stars?" Finn asks, looking up at the smooth surface above us.
"Of course," I reply, moving to the environmental controls. "Every chamber on the ship can display atmospheric projections."
I begin programming the Chicago stellar configuration, the familiar patterns he likely knows well. The constellation mapping appears above us—Earth's night sky as viewed from his residential coordinates, enhanced for optimal visibility.
But then Finn shakes his head. "No," he says softly. "Can I see your night sky instead? The one from your world?"
The request stops me completely. My bioluminescence flares bright enough to cast blue light across both our faces as I process what he's asking.
"You want to see my sky?" I ask, hardly believing it.
"I want to see what you grew up looking at," he says, settling on the edge of my sleeping platform. "What home looks like to you."
He's choosing my world over his own comfort. Asking to see something deeply personal, something that connects to my earliest memories and fundamental sense of home. No human has ever expressed such interest in Nereidan perspectives beyond their immediate practical applications.
I turn back to the controls with hands that aren't entirely steady, programming the stellar display for my homeworld's night sky during the season of my emergence. The Chicago patterns fade, replaced by something far more complex and beautiful.
Multiple moons materialize in different sizes, casting blue light around us. The stars arrange themselves in the patterns I memorized as a youngling, colors that don't exist in Earth's limited spectrum painting the artificial sky in purples and golds and the soft blue-white of distant suns.
"It's beautiful," Finn breathes, lying back to get a better view. "Completely alien, but beautiful."
The wonder in his voice makes my bioluminescence pulse with satisfaction. I settle beside him, close enough to feel his warmth, and point to a cluster of purple stars above us.
"The blue moons only appear during certain seasons," I tell him, my voice softer than usual. "When I was young, my creator-parents would take me to the roof gardens during these cycles to watch the way their light made the water gardens glow."
"Tell me about it," Finn says, turning his head to look at me. "About your world."
The request creates warmth that spreads through my entire nervous system. No one has ever asked me to describe my homeworld for the simple pleasure of understanding it.
I reach for the temperature controls, adjusting the sleeping platform to optimal warmth, then retrieve the thermal regulation coverings from their storage compartment. The fabric is designed to adapt to multiple body temperatures—perfect for interspecies comfort.
"Come here," I say softly, settling back against the platform and lifting the covering so Finn can join me beneath it.
He moves closer without hesitation, settling against my side as I pull the covering over both of us. The fabric immediately begins adjusting, creating a perfect microclimate around our bodies. Finn's skin is warm against mine, and through our empathic connection, I can sense his complete trust, his contentment at being held.
"The stars there," I say, wrapping my arm around him and pointing to a constellation with my free hand, "represent the ocean's underground rivers that connect all the water cities."
"Water cities?"
