The call was routine—if you could ever call negotiating with unstable Protocore operatives “routine.” My desk glowed with holo-screens, each one pulsing with graphs and weapon traces. My attention was split, fingers interlaced beneath my chin while I gave slow, calculated orders through the secure channel.

“Double the encryption line on Route 7C. No survivors if—”

The door opened without a knock. Only you could do that and live.

I didn’t turn at first. I knew your rhythm—the familiar hush of your steps, the soft whisper of your breath. But this time, something was different. My vision registered a shadow in my peripheral, but it was the silence from the channel, the absolute stopping of my voice that made me glance up.

You stood there, just beneath the sterile lights of my office, wearing a dress the precise shade of midnight embers—my favorite color. It clung to you like it had been sewn by reverence itself, traced with quiet rebellion and firelight. Your best friend had clearly talked you into this—but the way you smiled, a little mischievous and expecting, made it yours.

I forgot the call.

Not metaphorically—truly. The transmission blinked red, someone on the other end asked, “Sir? Sir, are you still—”

I ended it without a word.

My mouth opened—but nothing coherent came. No warning, no quip, not even one of my carefully sharpened compliments. Just the low sound of breath I didn’t realize I’d held.