Page 19 of Secretly Abducted
My dwelling comes into view—built into the coastal shelf, partially submerged, its bioluminescent panels dim in the late afternoon light. As we approach, I realize I've never had anyone here. Never had reason to wonder what another person might think of my space.
"Is that your house?" Alex asks as we near the structure.
"My dwelling, yes."
"It's beautiful."
We climb onto the entry platform, which is slick with storm residue. Alex slips slightly, and I catch his arm automatically. My bioluminescence flares at the contact.
"Thanks," he says, not pulling away immediately.
I key in my code, and the door recognizes me with a soft chime. The interior air rushes out, warmer and drier than outside.
"Fair warning," I say as we enter. "I don't receive visitors."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
The main room is exactly as I left it this morning—everything in its designated place, surfaces clean to the point of sterility. The walls are bare except for cultivation charts and growth projections, all perfectly aligned. Even the single chair is positioned at a precise angle to the table.
Alex stands dripping in the entryway, creating a small puddle that makes me twitch involuntarily. He notices.
"I need dry clothes," he says, pulling at his soaked underwear. "Do you have anything that might fit?"
"I have..." I consider. "Sleep shorts. They would be large on you."
"Perfect."
I retrieve a pair from storage—soft gray material I sleep in. When I turn back, Alex is standing with his back to me. Waterruns down his spine, and my bioluminescence immediately responds.
"Everything's soaked through," he mutters, struggling with the wet fabric of his underwear. "Including these." He hooks his thumbs in his underwear and pulls everything down in one motion, stepping out of the puddle of wet clothes completely naked.
I should look away. Should give him privacy. Instead, I stand frozen as he turns slightly, taking the shorts from my nerveless fingers. His casual nudity is apparently nothing to him, but my bioluminescence is cycling through colors I didn't know I could produce.
"Thanks," he says, pulling them on. They sit low on his hips, loose but staying up. "Much better. Wet underwear is the worst."
He wanders through my dwelling half-naked like it's perfectly normal, examining everything while I try to remember how to form coherent thoughts. He stops at my workstation, water still glistening on his shoulders, and touches one of the screens.
"You watch them constantly?"
"The systems alert me to anomalies."
"But you watch anyway."
He moves to the kitchen area, opening storage units with casual curiosity. Each door opens to reveal precisely organized supplies—nutrition packets arranged by date, hydration cylinders in perfect rows, cleaning supplies sorted by frequency of use.
"Jesus," he mutters. "This is like a laboratory."
I start to feel self-conscious about the extreme organization. "I prefer efficiency."
"This goes way past efficiency." He opens another cabinet—eating utensils sorted by size. "This is like... pathological neatness."
I immediately move to straighten a hydration cylinder that's minutely out of alignment. Alex catches my hand.
"Stop."
"It's not properly positioned."
