6
MALREC
Ididn't sleep.
Not well, anyway. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of my quarters, watching shadows from the volcanic vents outside shift and dance across the stone. Replaying that moment in the stables when I said her name and sheflinched.
Not like I'd struck her. Like something detonated inside her skull and she had to physically brace herself against the supply station to stay upright.
The way her breathing changed. The flush that crept up her neck. The way her hands trembled before she locked them white-knuckled against the stone.
I've seen humans react to proximity with demons before—fear, usually, sometimes arousal if they're the type drawn to power dynamics they can't control. But that wasn't either of those things. That was something else entirely, something that looked almost likerecognition, and it's been eating at me ever since.
When I finally did fall asleep, I dreamed.
She was in the upper estate. Inmyprivate quarters, which should be impossible because humans aren't permitted in thatsection unsupervised. But there she was, moving through the space like she belonged there. Her hair was loose around her shoulders instead of tied back for work, and she was wearing something simple—one of those soft tunics humans favor when they're not in labor garments.
And she was smiling.
Not at me, exactly. At something she was doing. Arranging things on a table, maybe, or organizing books—the details don't quite hold when I try to recall them now. But the smile itself was so clear. Genuine, unguarded, the kind of expression I've never actually seen on her face because every time she looks at me it's with poorly concealed hatred.
In the dream, I walked into the room and she glanced up. Still smiling. Like my presence was expected.Welcome, even.
"You're back early," she said, and her voice carried that same warm familiarity as her expression.
I moved toward her—didn't think about it, just moved—and she turned fully to face me. Reached up to brush something off my shoulder with casual intimacy, and I caught her wrist.
Not harshly. Just held it, my thumb pressed against her pulse point, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her skin.
"Missed you," I said, and the words felt so natural. So obvious.
She laughed softly. "You saw me this morning."
"I know."
Then I kissed her. Slow and deep, one hand sliding into her hair while she melted against me like we'd done this a thousand times before. Like her body knew exactly how to fit against mine. Like this was just another evening in a life we'd been living together for years.
It felt so real.
Real enough that when I woke, I could still taste her. Could still feel the weight of her hair between my fingers, the warmthof her breath against my mouth. Could still hear that laugh, soft and intimate and completely at odds with the sharp-edged woman who glares at me across the stables.
I sat up in bed, heart pounding, and stared at my empty quarters.
Just a dream. An extremely vivid, oddly specific dream about a human I barely know and definitely don't like.
Except it didn'tfeellike just a dream. It felt like a memory I don't possess.
I've been turning that over in my mind all morning. The impossibility of it. The way my subconscious apparently decided to construct an entire domestic fantasy around someone who hates me and who I find infuriating on multiple levels.
Beautiful, yes. Lenna is objectively attractive in that raw, unrefined way some humans manage—all warm brown eyes and expressive features that telegraph every emotion even when she's trying to suppress them. But beauty doesn't negate the fact that she's reckless, opinionated, and seems determined to get herself killed through sheer proximity to creatures that could tear her apart without effort.
I don't have time for this. Don't have space in my life for whatever confused tangle of attraction and irritation is apparently brewing beneath my conscious awareness.
And yet here I am, watching her move through the morning tasks with unusual quietness, and I can't stop thinking about that smile from the dream. The one I've never actually seen. The one my mind apparently invented wholesale and decided feltright.
She hasn't looked at me directly since yesterday. Keeps her head down, focuses on her work with more intensity than necessary. The tension in her shoulders suggests she's as unsettled as I am, though I doubt for the same reasons.
I should say something. Address whatever happened when I said her name. Establish clear boundaries and return our interactions to the functional antagonism that at least makes sense.
