Page 57 of Technically Abducted
I shift closer, noting how Finn doesn't tense or pull away. "Most Nereidan settlements are built partially underwater. The architecture flows with the currents rather than fighting them. During the day, natural light filters down through specially designed canals, and at night..."
I pause, letting my fingers trace gentle patterns on his arm as memories surface. "At night, the bioluminescent gardens create pathways of light through the water. Like living stars beneath the surface."
"The moons create tides like you've never seen," I continue, my free hand tracing gentle patterns on his arm as he settles more comfortably against me under the covering. "When all align, the waters rise so high they reach the observation decksof even the tallest spires. Children learn to swim before they can walk properly, because during those seasons, swimming is often faster than walking."
"Sounds magical," Finn murmurs, his body relaxing completely against mine under the warm covering.
"The largest moon controls the primary tides," I continue, noting how his breathing has begun to deepen. "But the middle moon governs the emotional currents that flow through the water itself. My people are more empathically sensitive during its full phase."
Finn makes a small sound of interest, but his responses are becoming slower, more distant. I find myself consciously gentling my voice, turning the sharing of information into something more like the lullabies of my youth.
"During storm seasons, when the winds are too strong for surface travel, we use the deep channels," I whisper. "Ancient tunnels carved by the first Nereidans, lined with phosphorescent algae that respond to movement. Swimming through them is like flying through a galaxy of stars..."
I take his hand, marveling at how perfectly it fits in mine, how natural this contact feels. Through our empathic connection, I can sense his consciousness drifting, floating between waking and sleep while my voice carries him toward rest.
This is unprecedented. I have never intentionally shared sleeping space with another being on this level. Never wanted to watch someone fall asleep, never felt the profound satisfaction of providing comfort through presence and voice. The assessment parameters contain no framework for analyzing these experiences.
"The coral forests grow in spirals that reach toward the blue moon's light," I continue, my thumb brushing over his knuckles as he grows sleepier in my arms. "Young ones maketheir first deep dives there, following the spiral paths down to where the ancient memory stones rest on the sea floor..."
Finn's breathing has settled into the deep rhythm of approaching sleep, but I continue talking, describing the tidal pools that sing in harmonies, the festivals where entire cities pulse with synchronized bioluminescence, the way water tastes different under each moon's influence. Not because he's still actively listening, but because some primitive part of my brain insists that my voice will keep him safe, will guide him peacefully into rest.
I dim my bioluminescence to the softest possible glow—just enough to maintain a comforting presence without disturbing his sleep. Through our fading empathic connection, I can sense his absolute trust, his complete relaxation in my presence.
He has never felt safer, and somehow, neither have I.
"The way dawn breaks over water cities," I whisper as his consciousness finally slips completely into sleep, "turns the canals into liquid gold, and the whole world becomes light reflected infinitely through water..."
I continue speaking long after he's fully asleep, describing my world to someone who wanted to know it, who chose my sky over his own familiar stars, who trusted me enough to fall unconscious in my arms while I shared the most personal pieces of my identity.
When I finally stop talking, the silence is profound and peaceful. Finn sleeps deeply beside me, one hand still intertwined with mine, his breathing steady and calm under the light of my homeworld's moons.
I have never experienced anything like this. This profound contentment, this sense of completeness that comes from sharing not just physical space but the fundamental elements of who I am. But beneath the contentment liessomething more complex—a growing dread that accompanies every peaceful moment like this.
This cannot last. In days, perhaps a week, I will submit my assessment report. The Council will make their determination about human integration potential. And Finn will return to his apartment, his clients, his isolated but efficient life, while I move on to whatever assignment comes next.
The thought creates a hollow sensation in my chest that I've never experienced before. I have completed dozens of assessments, studied countless species, moved from assignment to assignment with professional satisfaction and personal detachment. But the idea of watching Finn walk away, of never again seeing his face soften with trust, of never sharing moments like this...
I find myself holding him more tightly, my bioluminescence dimming to the softest possible glow as if keeping the light low might somehow stop time, might keep this moment from ending.
This assessment has become something entirely unplanned. And for the first time in my career, I'm not sure I'm strong enough to do what protocol requires when it's over.
Chapter Seventeen
Finn
I wake up slowly, consciousness filtering in through layers of warmth and comfort I've never experienced before. Tev'ra's arm is wrapped around my waist, his chest pressed against my back, and the steady rhythm of his breathing tells me he's still asleep. Above us, the moons of his homeworld cast their gentle light, and for a moment I let myself pretend this is normal. That I wake up like this every day.
Then reality crashes back. Today is day three. Seventy-two hours, that's what the assessment period was supposed to be. Which means today—
I feel Tev'ra stir behind me, his body shifting as he begins to wake. And that's when I become aware of something pressing against my lower back, hard and warm through the thin fabric of his sleep clothes.
"Finn," Tev'ra says softly, his voice rough with sleep. "I apologize, I should—"
"No," I interrupt, pressing back against him before he can pull away. "Don't apologize."
I can feel his confusion through our empathic connection, the way his arousal wars with his concern about propriety. "Finn, you do not need to—"
"I want this," I say, turning in his arms so I can see his face. "Last chance, right?"
