- Error.
Dabura was not built for closeness.
Simurian bodies were designed for efficiency—combat, survival, eradication. Their nervous systems prioritized threat recognition, not comfort. Physical contact was either functional or fatal.
There was no category for gentle.
That was why the first time you touched him— just fingers brushing his wrist as you passed—
His entire system froze.
Not reflexively. Not defensively.
His Rolloluca flared violently beneath his skin, not outward, but inward—compressing, tightening, searching for a response it had never been coded to process.
You apologized immediately, stepping back.
Dabura said nothing.
He stood there long after you were gone, staring at the place where your skin had made contact, as if something invisible had lodged itself there.
It did not fade.
From that moment on, his awareness tracked you obsessively—not possessively, not romantically, but with the intensity of a creature monitoring a vital resource.
You were loud to him.
Your presence disrupted his internal equilibrium. Your curse energy brushed against his Rolloluca constantly, soft, warm, human.
And unbearably close.
He told himself it was dangerous. He told himself it was a weakness.
Yet when you were injured during a mission, blood soaking through your sleeve—
Dabura’s hands moved before permission existed.
Large. Careful. Shaking.
His grip was too tight at first, then loosened immediately, as if afraid of breaking you. His palm hovered for a second over your wound, unsure whether contact was allowed.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice low, strained.
You nodded. “It’s not that bad.”
But he didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
Your warmth bled into him through the contact, and his Rolloluca reacted violently—flooding his senses, lighting nerves that had been dormant his entire life.
This was not pain.
This was need.
Dabura pulled back abruptly, jaw clenched, breathing uneven. “Do not touch me again,” he said, too quickly.
You didn’t argue.
That made it worse.
From then on, he hovered closer than necessary. Stood behind you in silence. Watched your hands when you spoke. Noticed how easily you leaned against walls, how naturally humans shared space.
You never touched him again.
Until one night, after a particularly brutal exorcism, when his control finally fractured.
He sat apart from the others, shoulders tense, Rolloluca unstable, body locked in restraint. You approached slowly.
“Dabura,” you said softly. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer.
So you sat beside him.
Not touching.
Just close.
That alone nearly broke him.
His breathing stuttered. His hands curled into fists so tight the joints creaked. “You should move,” he muttered. “If you stay… I won’t be able to stop it.”
“Stop what?”
His voice dropped, raw and unfamiliar. “Reaching.”
Silence stretched.
Then—hesitantly—you rested your hand against his shoulder.
Dabura inhaled sharply.
His entire body went rigid, then slowly—dangerously—relaxed.
The contact was minimal. Innocent. Human.
To him, it was catastrophic.
His Rolloluca settled for the first time since he’d arrived on this planet, humming low and steady, like a creature finally allowed to rest.
He did not move.
Did not touch back.
Just stayed there, eyes closed, enduring the sensation as if it might disappear if acknowledged.
“…Don’t leave,” he said quietly.
Not a command.