The first thing he was aware of was the warmth. Not the sterile heat of a server room or the humid press of a city alley, but a soft warmth like life itself curled against his side. Lucien opened his eyes.

  The room was bathed in the cool, dawning light of Mindra, the city's neon glow washing through the panoramic window in a muted color like dulled amethyst. It reminded him of her eyes, like the city was as sleepy as she was, and neither had yet awoken. The apartment was a perfect memory—immaculately clean but minimalist, all dark woods and polished chrome. Outside, the soft, simulated sound of rain pattered against the glass, a soothing rhythm that had replaced the oppressive static of his fractured mind.

  He turned his head on the pillow. Echo was beside him, her breathing slow and even, her black hair a dark spill against the white sheets.

  She was here. She felt so real. Not just a voice in his head, but a physical presence, her digital form a perfect, stable reconstruction.

  His mask was off, resting on the bedside table. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he was at peace.

  He stayed still for a long time, just watching her breathe, memorizing the line of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly in sleep. It was a luxury he’d never thought he’d have again. The memory was so vivid, so complete, that he could feel the ghost of her scent in the air—clean, electric, like the air after a storm.

  Gently, so as not to wake her, he eased himself out of the bed. The cool floor met his bare feet, a grounding sensation. He walked to the window, the entire city of Mindra spread out below him, a glittering jewel in the pre-dawn dark. It wasn't just a digital construct; it was their home.

  Their happy place.

  From this height, the city's usual chaos was rendered into a breathtaking, silent beauty.

  The rivers of traffic were now slow, pulsing streams of red and white light, flowing between monolithic towers that pierced the artificial twilight. The aggressive, competing jingles of the holographic advertisements were gone, replaced by a gentle, ambient hum. The ads themselves were still there, crawling up the sides of buildings like digital waterfalls, but they were muted, their colors—soft blues, deep purples, and warm golds—bleeding into the rain-streaked glass in a soft, impressionistic blur. It wasn't the real Mindra, with its acid rain and choking smog; it was a perfect, sanitized memory of it.

  One of the many falsifications of the truth that were so common with the Sovereign Earth Conservatory.

  But this one he'd happily accept.

  He’d been standing there for several minutes when he felt her arms slide around his waist from behind, her cheek pressed against the back of his shoulder.

  "Morning," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. "You're thinking too loud."

  He chuckled, a low, quiet sound in his chest. "Just enjoying the view."

  "The view's not going anywhere," she said, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder blade. "Come back to bed."

  He turned in her arms, his hands finding her waist. "I want to make you breakfast," he said, wanting to make the most of whatever time he had here.

  She just smiled, that small, private thing that would always make his chest ache. "The work can wait. Five more minutes."

  She tugged him gently, and he didn't resist, letting her lead him back to the warmth of the sheets.

  They fell in together in a collapse of limbs, an experience he thought he'd never have again. But she kissed him and it felt more real than anything he could remember. His body yearned for hers, and she welcomed it, entangled themselves so close he never wanted it to stop. Even as a recreation, the experience felt impossibly real.

  After, she just held him, his cheek pressed between the gentle swells of her chest.

  The five minutes had stretched to over an hour—maybe two, who knew. The world outside didn't exist here, where he could smell her skin and sweat. There were no missions, no threats, just the quiet, easy rhythm of two people who had found their safe harbor in each other.

  Slowly, Lucien raised his head, looking up at her and planting a gentle kiss to her sternum. He traveled down, not with an intent to go again, but from an internal battle of wanting to stay, and wanting to cook for her. His lips touched her belly, then her thigh, backing himself out of bed. Knee, shin, the top of her foot—he planted a final peck on her toes and drew a giggle out of her.

  He pulled on a pair of soft, gray lounge pants, the fabric completely opposite of the tactical gear that had become his second skin. Echo had told him once that she found him incredibly sexy wearing nothing but those gray pants. Apparently it accented everything just the way she liked.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He’d bought three more pairs later that day.

  Walking out of their bedroom, across their large living room and into the kitchen, he went to work filling their apartment with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Rich and smooth, the comforting scent cut through the sterile perfection of the digital rain. Lucien stood at the kitchen counter, watching the dark liquid brew, savoring every moment, every drop—finally pouring it into two ceramic mugs.

  Echo padded up behind him, her bare feet silent on the polished floor. She leaned against his back once more, her arms wrapping around his torso.

  "You didn't have to get up," she murmured, her voice a warm, sleepy hum against his skin. "We could have just ordered some."

  "It's not the same," he said, handing one of the mugs to her. "Tastes better when you make it yourself." Their fingers brushed for a moment, and he tried to cement the memory in place forever.

  She smiled, a genuine, unguarded thing that lit up her electric-pink eyes. "You're an old-fashioned romantic, Lucien Thorne."

  They moved to the window, mugs in hand, and looked out at the dream city below. The rain had softened to a gentle drizzle, and the muted neon lights of the towers cast long, shimmering reflections on the wet surfaces of the airlanes.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said softly, leaning her head against his arm. "When you're not trying to shoot at it or blow it up."

  "It's quiet," he replied, his gaze tracing the slow, pulsing stream of a traffic lane. "I'd forgotten what quiet felt like."

  “I’m glad we were able to remember it together,” she said. “We earned it.”

  After he finished his coffee, he guided her to a comfortable armchair, drawing a soft blanket over her naked form. He instructed her to stay. Relax. Read, like she always liked to.

  Lucien moved back to the kitchen, finding tangible ingredients to cook. Nothing overly fancy or exceedingly extravagant. But extraordinarily real, even in the memory.

  He cracked eggs into a sizzling pan, the sound a sharp, welcome crackle in the quiet. He sliced a loaf of fresh bread, its crust impossibly perfect. He even found a small jar of strawberry jam, its color a vibrant red.

  He served it on simple, white plates, setting them on the low table in the living area. They ate sitting on the floor, their backs against the couch, the city a silent, glittering backdrop. The food tasted real. The warmth of the coffee, the salty bite of the eggs, the sweet, sharp tang of the jam—it was all a perfect reconstruction of a thousand quiet mornings they had once shared.

  The rest of the day unfolded in a slow, easy rhythm, a mosaic of mundane, domestic moments that felt more precious than any hard-won victory.

  They talked about everything and nothing—as long as it wasn’t related to missions or threats. The plot of a stupid holo-vid they'd once watched, a bad meal at a noodle stand, a joke Dorian had told that had fallen completely flat. Dorian was, in fact, a simple AI, and he was useful for mission support, but tended to be lacking for any sort of interaction outside of that scope.

  That evening, he sat on the low couch, the delicate tools of a cybernetics kit spread out before him on the coffee table. He was meticulously recalibrating the thermal sensors of his mask, the familiar, intricate work a form of meditation.

  Echo was lying on her back beside him, wearing only a loose tank top and panties. Her legs were kicked up over the back of the couch, her head dangling upside down off the cushion. She was completely immersed in a digital novel that was floating holographically several inches away from her face.

  "You've been devouring that book," Lucien said, not looking up from a particularly stubborn micro-gyro. "Must be a good one."

  "It is!" she replied, her voice bright with excitement. "It’s this awesome space opera romance. It’s about a guy who kind of wakes up on his own, everyone he knows is gone, he’s not on the planet he last remembers—doesn’t even speak the language at first.”

  “That sounds like it could cause problems,” Lucien humored her.

  “Ohoh, yeah,” Echo laughed, deep from her chest. “He finds himself at odds with a whole gaggle of sexy alien matriarchs, finds out he kind of has super powers—they’re not really super powers—but like, kind of? Anyway, they have to save the matriarchs’ planet and he kind of ends up in this big found family setting with them as they run around the galaxy doing a bunch of cool missions."

  Lucien paused his work, a small smirk playing at his lips. "Is it a harem? That doesn’t sound like something you’d be able to acquire legally on a Conservatory planet."

  Echo laughed, a genuine, happy sound that filled the quiet room. "No, it’s not a harem, but I can see why you might think so. All the women are pretty badass but he only really ends up having feelings for one of them.”

  “Hmm,” Lucien said thoughtfully, tightening a tiny screw. “I might have to check it out.”

  “I think you’d like it,” Echo said, kicking her feet. “The main character’s powers kind of make it where he can’t have sex but that doesn’t mean the story lacks fun spicy scenes if you’re into that kind of thing. It’s like a nice little bonus the reader can choose to skip if they want.”

  “Oh yeah?” Lucien cocked an eyebrow at her. “So is that your thing?”

  “Now Lucien,” she side-eyed him with a sultry smirk. “That would be telling.”

  She swiped the novel away with a flick of her wrist and sat up, stretching like a contented cat. "Are you hungry?"

  "Yeah," he admitted, setting down a pair of tweezers. "I could eat. What are you thinking?"

  "I'm craving a good fruit smoothie," she said, already drifting toward the sleek, integrated kitchen unit.

  He watched her go, the easy grace of her movements a quiet miracle. He returned to his work, the low hum of the smoothie blender a comforting domestic sound in the background. A moment later, he felt a soft touch as her hands came to rest on his shoulders from behind. She leaned down, pulled his head back gently, and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. Then, a steaming mug of coffee was placed on the table beside him.

  "Here," she said quietly.

  He looked up at her, and a warmth filled his chest had nothing to do with the coffee. "Thanks."

  She padded back over to the kitchen, her bare feet making a soft plap plap plap against the floor.

  Lucien looked over his shoulder, watched the sway of her thighs and hips as she walked away.

  He never wanted this day to end.