Page 12 of Secretly Abducted
"So when you glow gold like that...?"
I look away. "I should check the storm progress."
"Vel'aan."
"It's complex. Different patterns mean different things."
"And gold means?"
I stand, moving to the communication panel to check weather data I don't actually need. "The storm will last approximately four hours."
"You're deflecting."
"Yes."
He laughs, and the sound fills the small space. "At least you're honest about it."
Outside, the storm is building in earnest. The zhik'ra forest bends and sways, and occasional debris floats past our transparent walls. But inside, we're safe, dry, and very much alone.
"Tell me about Earth," I say, desperate to change the subject from my revealing bioluminescence. "What is it like?"
"Complicated," Alex says. "Beautiful and terrible and messy. Nothing like here."
"How so?"
He settles back, getting comfortable, and starts talking. About cities and seasons, about technology that breaks and gets fixed, about billions of humans all living different lives. His voice is soothing, and I find myself relaxing as he talks, letting his words wash over me.
The storm rages above, but down here in our small shelter, I'm beginning to feel something I haven't felt in ten years.
Not quite peace. Not quite safety.
But maybe, possibly, the beginning of connection.
Chapter Four
Alex
The shelter is smaller than it looked from outside. Maybe ten feet across, with the sleeping platform taking up a third of the space. I've been exploring it for the past hour while Vel'aan sits frozen against the wall, trying very hard not to watch me.
I'm not making it easy for him.
"What's this?" I ask, reaching over him to touch a panel on the wall. My chest is maybe three inches from his face, and his bioluminescence immediately flares gold.
"Environmental controls," he says, voice slightly strangled. "Temperature, humidity, air mixture."
"Cool." I don't move immediately, pretending to study the symbols. "And this one?"
"Pressure regulation."
"Important?"
"Very."
I finally step back, and he releases a breath. His skin is still pulsing with gold and blue patterns that I'm starting to recognize as attraction mixed with anxiety. At least I hope it's attraction. He's so hard to read.
The storm outside has gotten worse. Every few minutes something crashes into the shelter walls—zhik'ra torn from the sea floor, debris, the occasional confused fish. But the structure holds steady, barely even vibrating.
"Solid engineering," I comment, running my hand along the curved wall. The material is smooth, almost organic feeling. "What's it made of?"
