Archive of Our Own

We had been intimate for the first time in weeks. For a span of many minutes, the only reality was the friction of skin and the embarrassing, high-pitched noises escaping my throat. I hate making noise. It feels like leaking. But Suletta seemed to regard these sounds as accolades.

And her stamina is… statistically unreasonable.

I was undone. I was a liquid asset. My limbs felt heavy, detached from the central nervous system. I lay sprawled across her chest, listening to the staccato beating of her heart, trying to reassemble my persona.

I found this lack of tension irritating. I usually rely on my tension; it keeps me upright.

And her skin was hot. She’s always hot. It’s a thermodynamic anomaly. It defies standard logic.

I then felt a tightening in my chest. I identified it immediately as a desire to touch her again, but I filed that impulse away under “bad ideas.” I needed sleep. Sleep deprivation makes me say things that are inefficient.

I moved my arm. The friction of the sheets sounded loud in the quiet room.

“Maybe we could start a family,” I said.

The words hung in the air. They didn’t sound like mine. They sounded like a terrifying variable I hadn’t accounted for.

Suletta’s mouth fell open. It was impossible to tell if she was experiencing terror or joy. I decided I didn’t want the data on that yet. I realized I had just opened a negotiation I wasn’t prepared to close.

“Or,” I added, pivoting quickly to a lower-stakes acquisition, “at least, we could get a cat.”

I stared at her. It would have been smarter to just initiate round two. I can sleep when I’m dead.

Suletta kept looking at me. Her eyes were enormous. She was smiling. Not the polite smile she gives the shareholders, but the real one, the one that makes her look even more radiant.

I felt my face heat up—a physiological betrayal. I told myself it was a mid-life crisis, though the math didn’t quite work out. She said something about Saturn. I said something about Mercury. It was all very stupid.

Then I climbed on top of her again. I’m going to regret this in the morning, but the morning is a future-me problem.

Miorine was soft everywhere. She’s usually very small and very sharp, like a diamond that yells at you, but now she was just… heavy. She was lying on top of me, her white hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. I wanted to hit the emergency brake on the universe. Just stop the rotation right here. I wanted to live in this exact minute, where the only thing that mattered was that Mio had made those small, broken noises and held onto my shoulders like she was falling.

I liked the weight of her. She puts so much pressure on herself all day; I like being the only place where she lets herself be heavy, because she has a hard time relaxing. Usually, I just have to wait for her brain to run out of battery so her body can catch up.

I ran my fingers over her hair. I like it short because I can see her neck. Her neck is beautiful and it smells like expensive soap and salt. Her hair was messy, sticking up in the back like a cockatoo. It was cute.

“Maybe we could start a family,” she said.

My heart did a strong, hard kick against my ribs. I looked at her. A little child with white hair and angry eyebrows ran through the tomatoes in my head. The image was so clear it hurt my throat. I wanted to say Yes, let’s do it right now but I couldn’t get the air into my lungs.

Miorine’s face was terrified. She looked like she had accidentally stepped off a cliff.

“Or,” she said, “at least, we could get a cat.”

I let the breath out. A cat.

She was scared. A baby is big and loud and needs so much. She was trying to find a smaller way to be brave. She wanted to love something, but she needed it to be something that wouldn’t break her.

I thought about a cat sleeping in the greenhouse. I thought about a baby sleeping in the greenhouse. To me, they’re both just things you have to love and keep warm. I have plenty of warmth. I have too much of it, sometimes.

Miorine pretends she doesn’t, but she has just as much. She just keeps hers inside a hard shell, like a chestnut.

I ran my thumb over her frown, trying to smooth it out.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “A cat is good. It’s plenty. We can start small. I like us small.”

We didn’t sleep much after that. Miorine was hungry for me again. I like it when she needs me. It makes me feel real.