I collapse onto my bed without bothering to remove my clothes, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince myself this is the right choice. The only choice. That protecting her from my inadequacy is worth the hollowness already spreading through me at the thought of her absence.
Sleep, when it finally comes, pulls me under like drowning.
I'm in my study, late afternoon light slanting through the narrow windows and casting everything in shades of amber and gold. There's paperwork spread across my desk—acquisition contracts, stable rotations, feeding schedules—but I'm not focused on any of it.
Because Lenna is here.
She's curled in the chair near the window, her legs tucked beneath her and a book open in her lap. Sunlight catches in her brown hair, turning it warm and luminous. She's wearing one of my shirts—dark fabric that hangs loose on her smallerframe, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. There's an ease to her presence that suggests this is routine, that she belongs in this space as naturally as the furniture itself.
I watch her read, tracking the subtle movements of her eyes across the page, the way her fingers absently play with the corner of the book. Everything about this moment feels saturated with contentment—quiet domesticity that shouldn't be possible but somehow is.
"You're staring." She doesn't look up from her book, but there's amusement in her voice that makes warmth bloom in my chest.
"You're in my study," I point out, though there's no reproach in the observation. "Distracting me from work. I'm entitled to stare."
"You invited me in here." Now she does glance up, her brown eyes bright with affection that feels as natural as breathing. "Said you couldn't focus without me nearby. Direct quote."
Did I say that? It sounds like something I would say, in this version of reality where everything between us is simple and certain. Where she looks at me like I'm someone worth loving and I'm capable of accepting it without flinching.
"Come here," I say, pushing back from my desk slightly.
She sets the book aside without hesitation, unfolding from the chair with unconscious grace. When she crosses the space between us, I pull her into my lap, wrapping one arm around her waist while my other hand finds her face. Her weight settles against me with perfect familiarity, like we've done this a thousand times before.
"Hi," she says softly, her fingers coming up to trace the line of my jaw.
"Hi." I lean in and kiss her, slow and deep, tasting the smile on her lips. She melts into me with the kind of trust that suggests she has never had reason to doubt my care for her.
When we break apart, she rests her forehead against mine, her breath warm against my skin. "I love you," she whispers, the words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "So much it scares me sometimes."
"Don't be scared." My hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head with gentle pressure. "I've got you. Always will."
"Promise?" There's vulnerability in the question that makes my chest constrict.
"Promise." I kiss her again, pouring every ounce of devotion I possess into the contact. "You're mine, Len. Forever. Nothing changes that."
She makes a soft sound of contentment and burrows closer, tucking her face against my neck. I hold her there, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against my chest. The paperwork on my desk is completely forgotten. Nothing matters except this—her warmth in my arms, the trust she shows by surrendering her weight to me, the absolute rightness of having her here.
"I don't want to be anywhere else," she murmurs against my skin. "Just here. With you. Always."
"Then stay." My voice comes out rougher than intended, thick with emotion that feels almost too big to contain. "Don't ever leave."
"Never." She lifts her head to look at me, her brown eyes clear and bright with love I don't deserve but can't bring myself to reject. "I'm yours, Mal. Completely. For as long as you'll have me."
"Then I'll have you forever," I tell her, and mean it with every fiber of my being.
I wake to crushing emptiness, the dream dissolving around me like smoke but leaving behind residue I can't shake. My arms are empty. The space beside me in bed is cold. And the certainty of her love—the warmth of her weight in my lap, the trust in her eyes, the absolute conviction that we belonged to each other—all of it evaporates into the reality of my solitary chambers.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to physically push back the grief threatening to consume me. Because that's what this feels like. Not longing for something I never had, but mourning something I lost without understanding when or how it was taken from me.
The dream felt like a memory. Just like all the others have. And if it was—if that domesticity and devotion were real once—then what the fuck happened to destroy it?
And why can't I remember?
I drag myself out of bed on unsteady legs, my body moving through morning routines on autopilot while my mind stays trapped in the phantom sensation of holding her. The decision I made last night—to send her away, to create distance—sits like ash in my mouth. Wrong in ways I can't articulate but can't ignore.
But what's the alternative? Keep her here where she's disappointed by my inadequacy? Force her to endure my cold, withdrawn presence when she clearly wants someone warmer? Watch her look at me with that confused hurt in her eyes because I'm not the person she remembers?
By the time I'm dressed and moving through the estate, the sun is barely above the horizon. Most of the household is still asleep or just beginning their day. I navigate toward Damiros's section of the grounds, needing to talk to him before I lose my nerve entirely.
