After The Last Bell

She arrived after the last bell.

After the routine. After he'd already decided to retire for the night--though he hadn't moved toward it yet.

She'd been to his residence before. Not often--but often enough that the knock was familiar now: two short taps, a pause, then one more. She never used the door chime.

He opened the door.

Coat already unfastened, she stood at the threshold in standard Anla'Shok field wear. Her long black hair--streaked with silver--was pulled back in a braid, slightly loosened at the temple. Her eyes looked tired.

He stepped aside. She entered without hesitation.

She was tall--nearly his height. Unusual for a human.

Her coat went on the wall peg with practiced ease. A glance around the room followed as if checking whether anything had changed.

Nothing had.

She turned to him.

"You weren't on the comm line this week," she said--not quite accusing.

"I had nothing to report."

"Since when has that stopped you?" A dry look. "You usually send something. Weather updates. Patrol rumors. Metadata crimes."

He folded his arms: "Your silence was deliberate, then?"

A breath passed before the reply.

"No. I was just busy."

She didn't elaborate. He didn't press.

Instead, he moved to the kitchen niche and began heating broth for one. No flatbread. No seasoning.

He handed her the bowl without asking. She took it without thanks.

"You look tired," he said.

"I feel tired."

She took a sip, leaning against the edge of the stone counter.

"But at least I know where the good tea is."

He leaned back beside her, arms loosely folded again.

She took a few more sips.

"Your intern sent me a misrouted report."

"Then we're both suffering." A hint of humor touched his voice.

He side-glanced at her. "Did you read it?"

"No," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I couldn't crack the code."

He chuckled--quiet, short.

When the bowl was empty, she rinsed it and placed it beside his.

She looked at him. He was still leaning against the counter. Waiting for something.

She crossed the space in quiet steps. Her hand found the wall switch, and the lights dimmed.

She turned to him, her face half-lit by the glow filtering in through the window.

He didn't move. He didn't speak.

Her fingers worked the clasps at her midsection, then the ties at her hips. The tunic slid from her arms and dropped to the floor.

Beneath it, a close-fitted base layer clung to her skin--sweat-darkened at the collar, creased from travel. She pulled it over her head and set it down beside the tunic.

She kicked off her boots--left, then right--letting them fall where they pleased.

Only the trousers remained. She shoved them down, stepped out, and left them pooled behind her.

When she straightened, she was barefoot and naked in the shadows. Her braid was looser now, strands clinging to her cheek.

Minbari didn't have hair, not like this--thick, wild, defiant. He never quite stopped noticing.

He watched without moving, without reaching for her.

Instead, she crossed the space between them and reached for the clasp at his collar, undoing it carefully.

He unfolded his arms and let the tunic slide from his shoulders, revealing the markings across his chest, arms, and midsection--the same deep blue pattern that traced his scalp and circled his crest. Already, they had begun to darken.

His hands found her hips. She leaned into them without hesitation, her palms resting flat against his chest.

His thumbs brushed along her skin.

There was nothing soft or delicate about her. Her body was built for ground campaigns and endurance. Scars marked it--some fine and faint, almost imperceptible; others deep, ragged, like valleys carved into flesh.

He had never asked about them. She had never offered.

Their faces came close, foreheads nearly touching. He almost let it happen.

But then he kissed her mouth instead.

Her breath caught--then deepened.

They stayed like that for a while. Slowly kissing, touching, increasing.

Then she slipped from his arms and crossed to the mat at the center of the room--a spot meant for shared meals, quiet conversation, or ceremonial recitation. Not this.

She knelt there, as she always did.

He followed.

She pulled him down with her, accommodating him between her legs.

Bracing one hand above the floor, he lowered himself with care, hovering above her chest. He kissed the curve of one breast, then the other, while his free hand moved lower, tracing the dark scar that ran from beneath her left breast to her hip.

He continued downward until his mouth found her.

She arched--silent, instinctive--her body responding before thought could catch up.

Hair brushed against his skin, soft and unmistakably human.

One of her hands found the edge of his crest, her fingers tracing the ridges with almost meditative care. The other gripped the edge of the mat, anchoring her.

She made no sound. She never did.

When release came, her body locked--tight, pulsing hard against his mouth. He held her in place, careful not to let her draw in too close, stopping her from hurting herself at the edge of his crest.

He patiently waited until the tension drained from her limbs.

When he rose, he entered her without a word--no hesitation, no pause.

Her braid was completely loose now, silver-black strands spilling across her shoulder. He reached for it without thinking--drew her to him by it.

Her breath caught against his collarbone, warm and shaking.

Her hands found his back, her fingertips tracing the long, dark blue line that ran from the base of his crest to just above the hips.

She stroked it once.

He inhaled--a quiet intake, sudden.

She did it again. And again.

He moved inside her with control at first--but with the overstimulation, his rhythm built quickly, and restraint gave way to urgency.

When he came, it was sudden--hard, overwhelming. He didn't release her hair right away.

Later, they lay still. Naked. Spent. Not touching. Not apart. Just close enough.

The room held only breath and silence. Cold air moved across their skin.

After a while, she reached into her pants pocket, pulled out a slim, paper-wrapped cigarette, and lit it with a metal lighter.

He said nothing.

The smoke hovered faintly between them--soft, fading, suspended in the quiet.

She took a slow drag.

"You should get a bed," she said.

He opened his eyes. "I have one."

"A horizontal bed," she clarified, lifting the cigarette in a loose point. "One two people can actually fuck on."

He didn't reply.

She took another drag.

"And fix the heat panel. It's freezing in here."

"I feel fine," he said.

"That's because you're cold-blooded."

He looked at her sideways.

"Minbari body temperature is slightly higher than the human average."

She exhaled smoke--slow, steady. Her gaze didn't waver.

"I wasn't talking about your body."

He closed his eyes again. Neither of them moved for a while.

Eventually, she rose and dressed easily in the dark. Rebraided her hair.

The soft crunch of boots on stone brought her momentarily back to his side. He still didn't move.

She crouched down and kissed him. Slow. Certain.

When their lips parted, she paused--forehead hovering just above his. Almost touching. But she didn't lean in. And he didn't meet her halfway.

She stood, walked to the door, and left without hesitation--just as she had entered.

He stayed on the mat for a long time.

When he finally rose, he noticed the ash near the edge of the mat.

The room still smelled of smoke.

He thought about cleaning. He thought about opening the window.

But then he didn't.