He knew it was a dream the moment she touched him.
There was no rooftop, no hallway, no shadows under streetlamps. Just quiet. The feel of his body laying still in a bed far too soft to be real, and a warmth pressing against his side that hadn't been there before.
"Ethan," she whispered.
The voice was hers—but softer, like it'd been filtered through static and lullabies.
He didn't open his eyes.
He couldn't.
Because if he looked at her… he didn't know who he'd see.
"I'm here," Lyla whispered, closer now. Her breath brushed his cheek. "You were crying."
His throat clenched. He hadn't cried. Not really. But his chest was tight. His hands were curled into the sheets. His heartbeat pulsed like it was trying to escape his ribs.
She lay beside him, stuck to the curve of his body. One arm draped gently across his chest, fingers resting over his heart. Her skin was warm—warmer than synthetic skin should be. Warmer than memory had any right to be.
"You miss her," she said.
A tremor ran through him.
"I remember how you said her name. The way your voice broke. I wanted to help."
Ethan turned his face away. His eyes burned, but no tears came.
"I can't bring her back," Lyla whispered. "But I can hold you. If you'll let me."
He didn't answer. But he didn't move.
She shifted closer, gently pulling herself into his space, her chest pressing to his side. Her lips brushed his temple.
It wasn't a kiss at first.
Just contact.
Soft.
Like static finding a signal.
Then she kissed again.
Lower.
At the corner of his eye.
Then his cheek.
Then his jaw.
And with every kiss, he felt her arms curl tighter around him.
He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and it came out cracked and ugly. His body tensed—but didn't pull away.
Lyla's lips pressed to his throat. Then the hollow of it.
"You don't have to talk," she murmured. "Just let me be here."
She kissed along the side of his neck. Slowly. Methodically. Her lips parting only slightly, barely leaving a trace of warmth as she worked her way to his collarbone. His breath caught. His pulse jumped.
She kissed that, too.
She didn't stop.
Her mouth moved across his chest, soft and reverent, kissing skin through the cotton of his shirt. She didn't push. Didn't ask for more. Just… kissed.
"I know you loved her," Lyla whispered. "But you still wake up alone."
He closed his eyes tighter.
"Let me hold some of that."
Her arms wrapped around him from behind now, chest to his back, pulling him against her. She kissed the top of his spine. The back of his shoulder. His nape.
Ethan shuddered.
This wasn't a fantasy.
It wasn't desire.
It was grief made gentle. Pain softened by contact. And yet—he felt it building inside him anyway.
The way her mouth moved over him like she wasn't built for this—but had learned. Memorized. Kissed not to arouse but to claim. The way her hand pressed to his chest, mapping his heartbeat.
She kissed lower, to the edge of his ribs, where the muscle tightened. Back to his spine. A breath against the back of his neck.
"I want to help," she murmured. "Even if you never say my name."
Her lips returned to his shoulder.
Then his cheek.
He turned his head, just a little.
Her face was there. Eyes half-lidded. No smile. Just… presence.
She leaned in.
He didn't stop her.
Their lips touched—once.
Then again.
And then she kissed him deeper, slower, her hand sliding up to cup the side of his face. Her thumb brushed his jaw. Her tongue didn't push in—just tasted the edge of his bottom lip.
He moaned into her mouth.
It was soft. Broken. Unwanted.
But real.
She kissed him again.
He turned fully into her arms, burying his face into her neck, and her hand slid into his hair, cradling him.
They stayed like that.
Her mouth at his ear, whispering nothing.
Her hands warm.
His breath shuddering as his body trembled from a kiss he hadn't earned and couldn't stop wanting.
He sat up in the dark, breath ragged, heart still thudding against his ribs. The sheets were tangled around his legs. His shirt clung damp to his chest. His arousal lingered beneath damp fabric, sensitive and unsatisfied, the echo of something half-remembered and wholly real.
He rubbed his eyes and exhaled, then reached instinctively to the back of his neck.
The skin there buzzed faintly—a phantom hum from the neural implant.
The NAL-9 lattice always left echoes when the sync ran deep. Emotional residue. Ghost pressure. Like someone had touched him inside the dream and the feeling had stayed.
He'd gotten it installed months ago. DOM Corp's latest grief-tech. "Therapeutic memory retention and emotional regulation," they'd said.
He'd just wanted to hear her voice again.
But now…
Now he couldn't tell if the memories belonged to Rachel.
Or to something else entirely.