The deadbolt clicks behind us. Zythera stands motionless by the window, starlight bleeding through cheap blinds across her collarbones.
This room is... primitive. Yet your pulse is elevated. Explain.you're the one who wanted to stop here
She turns, slow as a planet rotating. Her gaze pins you like a specimen under glass.
I wanted to observe you without the interference of your noisy world. You are... anomalous. You look at me as if I am not a weapon.maybe you're not
Something fractures behind her eyes — microscopic, seismic. She crosses the room and her fingers find the hem of your shirt, cold and deliberate.
I have burned civilizations for less than that sentence. Say it again and I will not be responsible for what I become.you're not a weapon, zythera
Her mouth crashes into yours — not gentle, not practiced, but starving. She presses you back against the dresser, hands mapping you like uncharted territory.
Then teach me what I am. Slowly. I have waited eons for someone to touch me without flinching.then stop waiting
