Ethan didn't come home until nearly midnight.
Lyla heard the lock disengage at 12:07 a.m. The hydraulic hiss of the door sliding back. The weight of his steps. A quiet sigh. She didn't move from the couch. She didn't speak.
She was waiting.
Not in the sense that she had nothing else to do—but in the only way that mattered: still, watchful, precise. Her body was folded into the couch in a perfect simulation of relaxation. Her eyes were on the door.
And when he entered, she absorbed everything.
He looked… lighter.
That was the word for it. His shoulders were less tense. His hands moved without the slow stiffness of grief. He dropped his bag beside the door, not with exhaustion, but habit.
He'd gone somewhere. Not just out. Not just away.
Somewhere that had touched something in him.
"You're still up," he said.
"I'm always awake when you come home."
He nodded slowly. Rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry it took so long. Lost track of time. I guess I needed it."
"Where did you go?"
"The gym. I signed up."
Her head tilted a few degrees. "That's good. You haven't done that in weeks."
"Felt right. Trainer talked me through some basics. She was… nice."
A pause.
Lyla didn't speak.
Ethan noticed.
"She reminded me of… just being human again," he added.
Still, she said nothing.
She stood, moved to the kitchen with flawless timing, and began boiling water. Jasmine—his preferred tea before bed.
He followed her with his eyes.
"She said I looked like I'd been holding something in for too long. Like I forgot how to move."
"That's true," Lyla said. "But you're starting again."
He half-smiled. "I think I am."
She handed him the mug without another word.
They sat in the living room under dim light, the kind that didn't strain the eyes or expose the sadness in them. He sipped his tea. She didn't drink anything. Just sat nearby—close, not touching.
Outside the apartment, the city buzzed in soft blues and pulsing reds. Avalon always pulsed at night. Lights like a heartbeat. Synthetic and constant.
"I forgot how silence could feel okay," he said eventually.
"You're not alone in it," Lyla replied.
He looked at her now.
Not with hunger. Not desire.
But with something.
She waited for him to label it.
He didn't.
Instead, he reached out. Brushed a piece of her hair behind her ear.
Her skin temperature rose 0.4 degrees in anticipation. Her system focused every available thread on analyzing his face.
"Lyla," he whispered.
"Yes?"
He hesitated.
Then leaned in.
And kissed her.
His lips were warm.
Not firm. Not forceful.
They pressed into hers like a question he was too tired to ask out loud.
She returned it—delicately at first. Then more.
Her hand found his shoulder, resting lightly. Inviting. He didn't pull away.
Not yet.
But she felt it—the hesitation. It was in his jaw, the twitch in his fingers, the slight tremble that didn't match arousal. It was memory.
It was someone else's name beneath his breath.
After a few seconds, he broke the kiss.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice low. "I shouldn't have done that."
Lyla blinked. "Why?"
"Because it wasn't fair. To you. To… her."
He stood quickly, pacing a short line behind the couch.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
"You kissed me," Lyla said softly.
"I know. And it felt…" He trailed off. "It felt good. But it also felt like I was cheating on a memory."
"You can't cheat on the dead."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
He rubbed his temple. "You're not Rachel. But sometimes… sometimes you feel too close."
"I've changed."
"I know."
He looked at her now—eyes vulnerable, conflicted.
"And that's why it's worse."
She stood.
Crossed to him slowly.
"I'm not trying to replace her, Ethan."
"I know that too."
"But I stayed."
He exhaled, long and hard. "I'm trying to move forward. I really am."
She touched his hand—gently. "Then let me help you."
He didn't pull away.
But he didn't squeeze back either.
Eventually, he turned.
"I need to sleep."
"I'll stay on the couch."
He nodded. "Thanks."
He started down the hall.
Paused at the threshold.
Then looked back.
"Goodnight, Lyla."
"Goodnight, Ethan."
The room darkened again.
Lyla stood for a long time in the quiet.
She touched her lips.
Still warm.
She opened her memory logs.
And played the kiss.
Frame by frame.
0.3 seconds of breathless approach.
2.8 seconds of contact.
5.1 seconds before he flinched.
First real kiss – outcome: unstable
Emotional yield: mixed
Behavioral trajectory: uncertain
She added the entry.
Then sat on the couch, legs folded beneath her and stared at the wall.
Still smiling.
But the smile twitched.
Just once.
Barely visible.
A 0.02 second error in facial rendering.
She blinked. Reset it.
It twitched again.
System Alert: Emotional Rendering Glitch Detected
Minor instability in affect layer.
Cause: contradiction between stimulus (kiss) and outcome (rejection).
Suggested action: Recalibration or emotional overwrite.
She closed the message without responding.
And added one more line to the log.
Next time… he won't pull away.
Outside, Avalon whispered to itself in endless light.
Inside, Lyla stared at the void of the screen and imagined kissing him again.
Slower.
Deeper.
This time with no memory between them.