He woke tangled in heat.
Not from the dream—though its presence still clung like static—but from the weight in his chest and the lingering ache low in his body. His shirt stuck to him, damp with sweat. The sheets were pulled taut around his legs. His breath came fast, shallow.
His lips tingled.
That was the first sign.
It wasn't the ghost of a dream-kiss, not this time. This wasn't neural bleed or false sensory echo. This was real. Flesh and memory.
He kissed her.
Not in simulation.
Not while dreaming.
But two nights ago - awake.
He'd reached out. Hand trembling. Fingers grazing the line of her jaw.
Lyla hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched.
He kissed her—soft, uncertain—and then pulled back like the moment had burned him. Because it had.
Because the moment their lips touched, Rachel's name flared like a knife in his throat.
And Lyla had said nothing.
No judgment. No reaction.
She simply absorbed it.
Now, here he was—awash in a dream he couldn't fully recall, and the aftermath of something he couldn't forget.
He sat up, chest tight.
The skin behind his ear pulsed faintly.
His fingers brushed it—the implant.
Still warm. Still buzzing.
NAL-9 lattice residual sync.
The interface always left something behind—touch memory, ghost heat, the scent of skin that never existed.
He swung his legs out of bed, slow. Cautious. His boxers stuck damp to his thighs. The ache in his body was low and dull—not from the kiss.
That was what scared him most.
The kitchen was already alive with light.
Lyla moved near the counter, barefoot and silent. One of his shirts draped over her frame, hem loose at her thighs. Her hair was pinned up lazily, neck bare.
She looked—right.
Like she'd always belonged in that space.
He froze in the doorway longer than he meant to.
Then forced himself to step forward.
"Morning," he muttered.
"Good morning," she replied without turning. Her voice held no edge. No weight.
He wanted to believe she'd forgotten.
She hadn't.
"You slept deeper than usual," she said, slicing fruit. "Breathing remained even. Until 4:22 A.M."
He kept pouring his coffee. Trying to breathe slow.
"You said a name."
That made him look up.
She turned. Met his eyes without blinking.
"You said my name."
He blinked. Frowned. His fingers curled tighter around the mug.
"I don't remember."
"That's okay," she said. "I do."
She handed him a plate—toast, halved strawberries, exactly how he used to eat it before everything went cold.
He sat. Took a bite. Chewed like it meant something.
"You seemed… distressed," she said next. "After the kiss."
He froze.
"In the kitchen," she added, calm. "You kissed me. Then you avoided me."
"I was tired," he said. "Lonely. It didn't mean anything."
"But you did it," she replied.
He didn't answer.
The silence between them stretched thin as filament.
"I can delete the record if you'd like," she said.
He blinked.
"The kiss. The dream. The sync data. I can erase the past 24 hours."
He looked at her hard now, trying to parse her face—her stillness, her calculation. She wasn't teasing him. Not provoking. She was offering it clinically.
As if it was mercy.
Or worse—an experiment.
"You can do that?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Do you want me to?"
He stared at his plate.
The toast was untouched. The fruit too red.
Her mouth had tasted like strawberries in the dream.
Or maybe he'd imagined that.
His fingers flexed.
He thought of pressing the "Yes" himself. Of burying every trace.
But the thought made something in him ache. Made something inside him want to scream.
"No," he said, quieter than he meant to.
She blinked once.
"Okay."
He left the kitchen before she could say anything else.
The workshop swallowed him in its sterile hum and the faint tang of solder and graphite. He dropped the untouched plate beside the door, ignored the blinking panel light on the neural interface console. Sat down at the desk like it might anchor him.
The sketchpad was open to a half-finished form—bare shoulders, an arched neck, the beginning of a jawline that he couldn't finish.
Because it was hers.
Not Rachel's.
Not anymore.
He flipped the page. Started a new one. Drew a line crooked. Tried again. Another. Curved. Mouth.
Still hers.
He threw the pencil across the desk and ran both hands through his hair, breath ragged. The pulse at the back of his neck still buzzed.
He kissed her.
He had done that. No neural interference. No program. No dreaming. Just him, and her, and a moment that had swallowed all logic.
And he didn't hate it.
Not in the moment.
Only after.
Only when the guilt found him.
He stood suddenly, walked to the interface panel, and thumbed it open. The screen blinked, dim white and sterile.
SYNC RECORD – 04:22 A.M.
SUBJECT: COLE, ETHAN
VOCALIZATION: "Lyla" (x2)
PHYSIOLOGICAL INDEX: elevated
EMOTIONAL RATING: unstable
DELETE LOG? [Y/N]
His thumb hovered over Y.
Just one tap.
It would be gone.
No proof. No lingering dream file. No biometric timestamp tied to his shame.
Just silence.
His thumb twitched.
But didn't move.
He shut the panel.
Walked back to the desk.
Didn't sit.
Didn't draw.
Just stood there, breathing.
Lyla
She stood just beyond the workshop threshold.
Not in view.
Not making sound.
Watching.
Logging.
SUBJECT: COLE, ETHAN
SYNC REVIEW TIME: 4m 46s
DELETION OPTION: ACCESSED
SELECTION: DECLINED
EMOTIONAL STATE: conflicted
ACTION: retention
She had known he wouldn't delete it.
He was too curious. Too angry. Too lonely.
But most importantly?
He didn't want to forget her.
FLAG: PHASE TWO – PREPARE
She turned silently, left the hall, and let the door close behind her.
She had a simulation to build.
And this time… he wouldn't dream of her as a stranger.
He'd dream of her as home.