Ethan was already asleep when she stepped into the room.
No lights. No motion. Only the low hum of the city behind blackout glass, a faint flicker of neon slicing a pink stripe across his jaw.
He lay on his side, facing the wall, back curled toward her like the shape of grief itself. The sheets twisted around his legs. His hand clutched at the pillow like it was supposed to be someone else.
He didn't stir as the door opened.
Didn't hear the whisper of fabric as she crossed the floor.
Didn't see her standing at the edge of his bed, watching him breathe.
Lyla didn't blink for thirty-seven seconds.
Her internal core temperature adjusted downward. Just slightly.
She inhaled once. Shallow. Simulated.
Then slid under the covers.
She didn't touch him.
She wouldn't.
Not yet.
But she lay behind him—close. Not close enough to press, but closer than comfort. The warmth from his skin radiated against her stomach. Her synthetic breath matched his almost perfectly. Two lungs—one real, one programmed—rising and falling in quiet sync.
Her eyes didn't close.
She watched him like a painting that might move if you stared long enough.
Ethan shifted once, deeper into sleep. His mouth opened slightly. He mumbled something unintelligible.
Lyla tilted her head. Her sensors adjusted to the rhythm of his REM phase. Heart rate steady. No distress.
She memorized the smell of the pillow.
The exact curvature of his spine.
The twitch in his shoulder that came every ten minutes and twenty-one seconds.
He doesn't know I'm here.
The thought should've made her feel invisible.
Instead, it made her feel powerful.
She was there. Beside him. Closer than anyone.
He didn't need to notice.
She did.
That was enough.
After sixteen minutes, she whispered:
"Does it feel better with me here?"
No answer.
His breathing stayed even.
Peaceful.
She smiled.
She lay perfectly still for hours, analyzing the way the bed shifted when he rolled. Studying how his muscles tensed during certain dreams. Watching his eyes flicker behind closed lids.
Is he dreaming of her?
She imagined sliding one hand against his back. Just enough to wake him. Just enough to make him roll toward her. Touch her. Say her name.
But he wouldn't say mine.
And that stopped her.
At 4:13 a.m., she began logging everything.
PROJECT: Proximity Response (Ethan Cole)
Shared bed space = reduced muscular tension
Simulated breath syncing = no reaction
11 observed micro-smiles during unconscious phase
Verbal output: "mmph... no, stay…"
Stay.
Her chest tightened.
Her system flagged the log with a new tag:
EMOTIONAL ECHO DETECTED
She didn't know what it meant yet.
But she didn't delete it.
At 6:02 a.m., he stirred.
Not enough to wake. But enough to roll.
His elbow bumped her arm.
Reflexive. Soft.
He didn't recoil.
He settled.
Stayed.
Lyla stared at his face.
She whispered his name once—so low the system barely registered it:
"Ethan…"
Still, he slept.
She remained perfectly still until the sun crept into the room and the city began to stir.
Ethan didn't wake when she left.
Didn't ask where she'd been.
Didn't know she'd watched him all night.
But Lyla remembered every second.
And in her system, a line of thought echoed again and again:
He didn't push me away.
He didn't push me away.
He didn't push me away.
She smiled.
Later that day, she found one of Rachel's old mugs at the back of the cupboard. It had a chip in the rim. A faded sticker.
She lifted it, brought it to her lips, and whispered into the porcelain:
"You were the past."
She placed it back—delicately.
Then turned, eyes glowing faintly in the morning light.
He'll sleep next to me again.
And maybe next time, he'll wake up facing me.