Page 60 of Technically Abducted
"I do," I admit. "Though lately I find myself missing things I haven't lost yet."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Finn's expression grows soft and sad, and he reaches up to trace the bioluminescent patterns on my chest.
"How much time do we have?" he asks quietly.
I don't want to think about it. "Perhaps four hours before I receive transport authorization."
"Four hours," Finn repeats, as if testing how the words sound. "That's... not very long, is it?"
"No," I agree, my voice rougher than intended. "It is not."
We float together in silence for several minutes, both lost in our own thoughts. I find myself cataloguing every sensation—the weight of Finn's body against mine, the way his hair floats around his face in the water, the gentle current created by our minimal movements. I want to remember all of it.
"Tev'ra?" Finn's voice is hesitant, vulnerable in a way that makes me pay immediate attention.
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you something? And if it's inappropriate or weird, just say so."
"You can ask me anything," I assure him.
Finn takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. "Would it be okay if I said goodbye to your parents?" He pauses, his voice becoming smaller. "I've never had supportive people in my life. Welcoming adults who actually seemed to care about my wellbeing just because I exist. Your parents made me feel... valued. Like I mattered to them even though I'm just some random human they'd never met before."
His words create an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with our impending separation and everything to do with the casual way he dismisses his own worth. The fact that my creator-parents' basic kindness feels extraordinary to him speaks to a lifetime of emotional neglect that makes me want to gather him close and never let anyone hurt him again.
"You are not 'just some random human,'" I tell him firmly, my hands tightening on his waist. "You have become precious to them—to all of us—in ways that have nothing to do with this assessment."
"Really?" There's such hope in his voice, such careful vulnerability, that I cannot help but kiss him again. This time it's deeper, more desperate, trying to convey everything I cannot sayabout how much he means to me, how the thought of losing him is tearing me apart.
"Really," I breathe against his lips when we separate. "And of course you can say goodbye to them. They would be honored."
Relief floods Finn's expression, and I feel it echo through our empathic bond like warm sunlight. "Thank you. I wasn't sure if there were protocols about that kind of thing, or if it would be overstepping somehow."
"There are no protocols for what we've shared," I say honestly, pulling him closer until there's no space between us. "This entire experience has been... unprecedented."
"For me too," Finn admits, his forehead resting against mine. "I've never felt anything like this. Never wanted to hold onto something so badly that the thought of letting go physically hurts."
His honesty breaks something open in me, and I find myself kissing him again, more desperately this time. He responds immediately, his arms winding around my neck as we lose ourselves in the connection that has become as essential as breathing.
When we finally separate, we're both breathing hard, our empathic bond humming with shared emotion—love and grief and desperate need all tangled together in ways that make my bioluminescence pulse brighter.
"We should make that call," Finn says eventually, though he makes no move to leave my arms. "Before I lose my nerve."
I want to protest, to keep him here in this peaceful bubble where we can pretend time isn't running out, but I know he's right. This goodbye matters to him, and I will not deny him anything he needs in these final hours.
Reluctantly, we extract ourselves from the pool and make our way back to my quarters. I adjust the temperaturecontrols while Finn towels off, both of us moving with the careful consideration of people trying to make routine actions last as long as possible.
When I establish the communication link, my creator-parents appear on the display almost immediately, as if they were waiting for our call. Their expressions light up when they see Finn, but I notice the way their bioluminescence dims slightly—they can sense the approaching farewell as clearly as I can.
"Finn Sullivan," Creator-parent Vel'tha says warmly, though there's something bittersweet in their tone. "How wonderful to see you again. You look well."
"Thank you," Finn replies, settling beside me on the seating platform. I can feel his nervousness through our bond, but his voice remains steady. "I wanted to talk to you both before I go back to Earth. To thank you for welcoming me, for treating me like... like family."
Creator-parent Mor'en's expression grows infinitely gentle. "The pleasure was entirely ours, young one. You brought light to our offspring's life in ways we never expected to see."
I watch Finn's face, noting the way his expression softens at their words, the slight shine in his eyes that suggests he's fighting back emotion. Through our bond, I can feel his genuine affection for them, his wonder at being accepted so easily by people who owe him nothing.
"Your kindness meant more to me than you probably realize," Finn continues, his voice growing stronger. "I've never... I don't have family like that. People who care just because. So thank you for showing me what that feels like."
