Page 10

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see a crack in his perfect Sentinel facade, a flash of something that might be desire or alarm or both. "I can still take the floor if you're?—"

"Don't be stupid," I interrupt. "We're supposed to be bonded, remember? Pretty sure actual bonded couples don't let each other freeze on the floor. Partners don’t do that either.”

The temperature drops another two degrees as we debate, making the decision for us.

With resigned efficiency, Trent activates the sleeping platform's thermal retention field—a thin energy barrier designed to reflect body heat back to the occupants.

It's a poor substitute for actual environmental control, but better than nothing.

"We should conserve energy until morning shift," he says, removing his outer uniform layer to reveal the standard undershirt beneath. The thin fabric does little to disguise the muscled contours of his chest and shoulders.

I swallow hard and follow suit, stripping down to my own regulation underclothes. Trent's eyes flash to me, then deliberately away, but not before I catch the quick dilation of his pupils.

The sleeping platform looks even smaller now that we're about to share it.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, trying to dispel the tension. "We've been in way worse situations. Remember the Northern Perimeter stake-out where we had to hide in that maintenance shaft for six hours?"

"Different circumstances," Trent says tersely, gesturing for me to get in first.

I slide onto the platform, pressing myself against the wall to make room for him. The thermal field activates fully on contact, humming softly as it creates a bubble of slightly warmer air around the bed.

Trent hesitates for just a moment before joining me, his movements careful and controlled as he positions himself on the very edge of the platform, maintaining a small gap between our bodies.

"This isn't going to work if you fall off in the middle of the night," I point out, trying to sound practical rather than eager. "The thermal field needs body contact to function efficiently."

He knows I'm right. We've both had the same survival training. With visible reluctance that I try not to take personally, he shifts closer until our bodies align, his chest against my back, his knees tucked behind mine.

And suddenly I can't breathe properly.

Three years of carefully maintained professional distance, and now here we are, spoon-style, with nothing but thin regulation underclothes between us.

I can feel the steady rhythm of his heart against my back, the warmth of his breath on my neck, the solid strength of his arm as he cautiously positions it across my waist.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that I feel as much as hear.

No. It's absolutely not okay. It's overwhelming and intoxicating.

It’s dangerous.

"Fine," I manage to say. "Body heat conservation at its finest."

The thermal field strengthens as our combined body heat builds, creating a cocoon of warmth that contrasts with the frigid air beyond the platform.

Outside our little bubble, the maintenance quarters have dropped to temperatures that would be uncomfortable for extended periods. Inside, we're almost too warm now.

Or maybe that's just my reaction to having Trent's body pressed against mine.

We lie in tense silence, both of us trying to pretend this is just another mission parameter to manage.

But it's not. Not after what we experienced in synchronization, not with the questions hanging between us about my condition, and certainly not with the way his body is responding to our proximity, a response I can feel all too clearly against the small of my back.

He’s hard as fucking steel.

To his credit, Trent tries to shift away when he realizes, but the narrow platform leaves him nowhere to go.

"Sorry," he mutters, tension evident in every muscle. "Involuntary physical response."

"At least something around here is working properly."

He goes very still behind me. "Thorne?—"

"Forget it," I say quickly. "Bad joke. Let's just try to sleep."

Another long silence fills the darkness, broken only by our breathing gradually synchronizing—inhale, exhale, finding rhythm together even now.

"I've been researching genetic adaptation patterns," Trent says suddenly, his voice quiet in the dim room. "Comparing historical data with current Unity protocols."

I'm grateful for the change of subject, even if his arm remains a warm weight across my waist. "Find anything interesting?"

"Unity's official position is that all genetic modifications are inherently destabilizing and dangerous," he continues. "But the classified research tells a different story. Some modifications actually enhance stability under changing conditions."

"Isn't that the whole point? Why the Splinters modified themselves in the first place?"

"Yes, but according to Unity doctrine, those adaptations come at the cost of humanity, changing what makes us fundamentally human." His voice drops lower. "The evidence doesn't support that conclusion."

I process this information, connecting it to my own situation. "You think my 'irregularities' might be adaptive rather than degenerative."

"I think," he says carefully, "that Unity's definition of human purity might be more political than scientific. "

It's as close to heresy as I've ever heard from rule-following, protocol-obsessed Trent Vanguard. Something fundamental has shifted in him—or maybe it was always there, hidden beneath layers of perfect Sentinel obedience.

"What does that mean for me?" I ask, my voice small in the darkness. "If what's happening isn't just an enhancement malfunction?"

His arm tightens fractionally around my waist, a gesture of reassurance that feels more intimate than it should. "I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out."

We.

Not you.

We .

"I had another dream last night," I confess, the darkness making it easier to share. "About a research facility. There was a woman with dark hair like mine, and she was saying something about adaptive genetics being the future of humanity. It felt so real."

Trent is silent for a long moment. "Have you had similar dreams before?"

"Fragments. Nothing this clear." I hesitate. "During the dream, I knew her name was Elara. When I woke up, I couldn't remember it until just now."

His breathing changes slightly. "That's not in any of your official records."

"I know. A dream right?" But the implications hang between us. Either my subconscious is creating elaborate fictions, or I'm remembering something that should be impossible, something from before my recorded history.

The thermal field pulses gently around us as the external temperature drops another degree. Instinctively, I shift closer to Trent's warmth, and his arm adjusts to hold me more securely.

"We should sleep," he says, though I can tell from his voice that his mind is still processing everything. "Morning shift starts in six hours."

"Right. Sleep. In this completely normal and professional situation."

I feel rather than see his smile in the darkness. "Always the professional, Thorne."

"One of us has to be."

His quiet chuckle vibrates against my back, and something shifts in the atmosphere between us, the tension transforming from awkward to...something else.

Something warmer and more dangerous.

"Zara," he says softly, using my first name in that way that always makes my stomach flip, "whatever happens with this mission, with your condition...I need you to know that I?—"

The environmental panel suddenly buzzes loudly, cutting him off. The message scrolls across its surface: SYSTEM TEST COMPLETE. RESUMING NORMAL OPERATIONS.

Almost immediately, the temperature begins to rise as the environmental controls reengage. The lights brighten to standard levels, banishing the intimate darkness.

Trent pulls away from me with careful movements, rolling to the edge of the sleeping platform. "Looks like they fixed the issue."

Test complete. Not a malfunction or resource conservation, but a test. They’re probably monitoring our reactions. I should have realized it immediately.

"They're watching us," I say quietly.

"More likely evaluating our adaption to lower-level conditions," Trent responds, but I can tell he's not entirely convinced. "Standard procedure for new transfers."

"Dropping temperatures below habitability minimums isn't standard anything." I sit up, missing his warmth despite the returning heat. "Someone's testing us."

Trent stands, his expression transitioning back to professional assessment. "If so, we've responded as expected for our cover identities. Maintenance workers accustomed to resource limitations and environmental fluctuations."

He's right, of course. If Marlow or someone else in Intelligence was watching, they saw nothing but two maintenance workers adapting to unfavorable conditions. Nothing to suggest Sentinels, and certainly nothing to suggest the complicated truth of what's developing between us.

Except for Trent's unfinished sentence, hanging between us like a promise.

What was he going to say?

That he…what?

What?!

I know better than to ask now. The moment has passed, the spell broken by the return to normal operations. Trent is already checking the maintenance tablets for morning assignments, back to mission-focused efficiency.

"We should each take a rest cycle," he says without looking at me. "I'll take first shift on the floor now that environmental controls are functioning."

"You don't have to—" I begin.

"It's better this way," he interrupts, his tone making it clear the subject is closed.

I want to argue, but he's right. Whatever was building between us in the darkness and cold is too dangerous to explore now, with too many unknowns surrounding us—my condition, the mission, Marlow's suspicions, the sympathizer network.

I lie back on the sleeping platform, now feeling too large and empty without him. "Wake me in four hours for my shift, then."

He nods, already arranging his uniform into a makeshift bedroll on the floor. The perfect Sentinel, always in control, always maintaining protocol.

Except for that moment when he wasn’t, when his body betrayed his attraction, when he almost said whatever he was going to say before we were interrupted.

As I close my eyes, trying to find sleep in our strange new environment, I can't help wondering about all the interrupted moments between us. The almost-confessions. The nearly-crossed lines. The not-quite-breached protocols.

How long can we keep orbiting each other before gravity pulls us together?

And what happens then, to Sentinels who break the most fundamental rule of their training?

I don't have answers, but as I drift toward sleep, my mind replays the feeling of Trent's arm around my waist, his breath on my neck, his heart beating in time with mine.

Whatever my body is becoming, whatever changes are happening to me, that memory feels more real than anything Unity has ever told me about who and what I am.