The smell of her filled the room. A smooth musk, deep and foreign. Distinctly human. He imagined leaning close to her reclining form, inhaling—but no. That would be to tell her.
And he mustn't let her know.
Josephine flipped back a page in her statistics textbook, intent on her studies. She was more than prepared for the exam. What motivated her now was anxiety. Cirok could discern this in much the same way he could smell her: an extra sense, known only to Vulcans. He could feel the stress crawl down her body like it was his own. Or was it? The two had grown closer over the past several days, if only because he was more psychically attuned than usual. He doubted she noticed; she lacked the capacity. She was human. But Cirok knew. His body and mind were turning, re-orienting themselves.
It had come.
He'd hoped—vainly, self-deceptively—that it was illness. Restless sleep, erratic appetite—were these not symptoms of an influenza? There were few human illnesses that could lie low a Vulcan, yet he'd pushed this inconvenient fact to the back of his mind. Surely, it was too soon? He was yet a year away from graduating the Academy. But his father's Time, too, had come early. He'd been barely more than Cirok's age when his older sister was conceived. He'd thought of contacting him over subspace. But he would only order him to return home, to marry, and Cirok had no interest in T'Pira. They had little in common, yet their parents had hoped their adolescent bonding would draw them closer over the years. He'd felt her now and then, while meditating, or just before falling asleep. Their minds would touch briefly. He would always be the first to pull away again.
For he had found another.
The blue light of the nearby lamp played strangely over Josephine's skin, much of which was revealed to him. To Vulcans, Earth summers were temperate, but to humans, they were unbearably warm. The malfunctioning environmental controls in her dormitory meant that Josephine wore little, at least from his perspective. What humans considered summer wear Vulcans considered underclothes. This cultural difference was quite apparent now.
Cotton shorts cut off her thighs mere inches from the appealing curve of her buttocks. Her shirt hugged her waist, riding up to reveal an inch of brown skin. One thin strap had fallen down her shoulder, although she'd failed to notice this. Propped up on her elbow, her breasts squeezed together, almost spilling from her top. Cirok felt his blood rush.
Josephine had never paid much attention to her appearance when they were together, and why should she? She was in no danger of sexual overtures from a Vulcan. It must have been a relief to her, to not be an object of desire for him. Human men were less trustworthy in that arena. Cirok had often pitied them and their near-constant arousal. How could they accomplish anything while so distracted? But human emotions were not like his. They were mild and fleeting. No human male wrestled with the roaring hunger he now faced. How he yearned to reach out, to touch her skin—
"Are you alright?"
Josephine's face was lined with concern. She'd rarely had cause to look at him thus; her kind solicitude was usually reserved for those who needed it. She reached a hand toward his sweat-slicked forehead. He jerked away from her.
"I think you have a fever." Could she feel the heat radiating off him? "Do you want me to walk you to the health center?" It took a moment longer than it should have to form an answer.
"No, thank you. I'm fine." She dropped her hand, but her brows contracted.
"You've looked ill all week."
He thought, for a moment, of confessing. Surely, she would take pity on him? But he couldn't ask that of her. He valued her friendship, as she valued his. To ask for her assistance in this matter would be too great a request. He remembered what his father had told him before he'd left Vulcan.
It is no business of theirs. Our private affairs are our own. No off-worlder may know.
And yet Josephine had exhibited a great respect and curiosity for his culture. She herself was highly rational. He often felt that she had more in common with his species than she did her own. But while Cirok spun arguments in her favor, shame swelled. The fever had muddled his logic; emotional concerns pulsed inside him. Josephine watched his face intently.
"You know you can tell me anything, right?"
His eyes flicked from her dark hair, as short as his own, to the tip of her chin. Her expression was earnest. Such trust! What would she think if she knew what he so desired from her? Would she fear him? She might have a reason to—his Vulcan strength was many times superior to her own. Could she even withstand mating with him? Did he have the discipline to be gentle? His passion would surely break her.
He thought of it then, pictured himself naked on top of her. His manhood stiffened in his trousers, pushing uncomfortably against the fabric. The fantasy was seductive, but an unexpected jet of anger pierced his stomach. Anger at himself, anger at his parents for not preparing him for this.
"What's happening to you?" Josephine's voice was a calm contrast to his own inner turmoil. She reached up and placed a piece of his hair behind his ear. The movement unsettled her shirt, and Cirok glimpsed, just for a moment, the full roundness of one of her breasts. He struggled with the yearning to caress it. As it were, his hand twitched in her direction. He spoke without meaning to, in a strangled voice he scarcely recognized as his own,
"This is intolerable. I cannot...I cannot..."
Something had broken open inside him. Her touch, however brief, had ignited a fire. He reached for his logic, for his control, but it had vanished, burned out by a need that threatened to swallow him whole.
"Can't what?"
