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.
