Page 33 of Secretly Abducted
I stare at him, this human who crossed space to find me, who came back after I rejected him, who's willing to exhaust himself in unfamiliar water just to help with my work. The morning light plays across his features, highlighting the sincerity there, the quiet determination.
"The current will push you toward the sharp rocks if you're not careful," I hear myself say. "Stay close."
"I will."
We work in careful cooperation for the next hour. I dive deep to assess the worst damage while Alex stays near the surface, awkwardly trying to untangle what he can reach. The coordination requires patience—when he gets confused aboutwhich pieces to cut, we surface together so I can explain. When he needs direction toward a specific section, I use hand signals—pointing, gesturing, demonstrating.
He's not efficient, but he's careful, checking with me before cutting anything questionable. His movements are clumsy compared to a Nereidan's, but there's something endearing about his determination, the way he refuses to give up even when the work clearly challenges him.
"That whole cluster is dying," I explain during one of our surface breaks, both of us treading water while I point to a section near him. "The holdfast is completely rotted. It all needs to come out."
"I can try—"
"No. Too deep for you, and the rocks are sharp down there. You handle the floating debris."
He nods without argument, and I'm grateful for his acceptance of his limitations. There's no wounded pride, no pushing beyond his capabilities to prove himself. He simply acknowledges what he can and can't do.
The sun climbs higher, its heat growing brutal. Alex's face becomes increasingly flushed, his movements slower and more labored. Sweat mingles with seawater on his skin, and I can see him starting to struggle.
"We should stop," I say when we surface after another dive. "The heat is too intense for you."
"I'm fine." But his voice lacks conviction, and he's breathing harder than he should be.
"You're not. You're overheating." I swim closer, concerned despite myself. "Come back to my dwelling. You can rest, cool down, have some water."
He pulls himself onto the platform with visible effort, water streaming from his overheated body. For a moment, Ithink he'll accept. Then he shakes his head, not quite meeting my eyes.
"That's... that's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and his eyes hold that same intensity from this morning—want and frustration and something achingly tender all mixed together.
"Because I still want you," he says simply, honestly. "And being alone with you, both of us wet and tired and..." He trails off, running a hand through his dripping hair. "I'm trying to respect what you said about it being too fast. But I'm not that strong, Vel'aan."
My bioluminescence erupts across my skin—gold and blue and that deep purple that only appears when I'm overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. I can't control it, can't hide how his words affect me.
"Alex—"
"Same time tomorrow?" he asks, standing carefully on the swaying platform. "If you need the help?"
I should say no. Should maintain the boundary I established this morning. Should protect us both from this impossible situation.
But looking at him—exhausted from trying to help me, honest about his feelings, trying so hard to respect my boundaries even while admitting he wants more—I can't bring myself to push him away again.
"Yes," I say instead. "If you want."
"I do." He starts to leave, then pauses, turning back. "For what it's worth, I think you feel it too. Whatever this is between us. Your colors give you away."
He's right. The patterns racing across my skin are telling a story I can't verbally deny—desire, fear, longing, hope, all swirling together in luminous confession.
"Tomorrow," I manage to say.
"Tomorrow," he agrees, and walks away, leaving me floating alone in water that suddenly feels too warm, surrounded by damaged zhik'ra and the certainty that something has shifted between us.
I watch his retreating figure until it disappears, then let myself sink beneath the surface. Down here, surrounded by the gentle sway of damaged growth, I can pretend the ache in my chest is just from too much exertion. Can pretend the empty feeling isn't growing with each passing moment.
But when I surface again, the emptiness remains. The zhik'ra needs tending. The damage needs repairing. And I have all the time in the world to do it.
