Julie finished Module 1—Behavior Expectations—and her head felt full of static. The house hummed faintly with morning activity, pipes and vents and quiet domestic machinery.
She needed to shower. Needed to feel clean. Needed to stop thinking about the handbook's phrases:
"Obedient femininity improves pair outcomes."
"Emotional compliance reduces reassignment probability."
She clutched clothes to her chest and padded down the hall. Roman was in his office. Dean was nowhere in sight.
She opened the bathroom door—
And froze.
Steam curled thick in the air, fogging the mirror into opaque silver. Dean stood under the shower spray, back turned, water sheeting over the hard planes of his shoulders and down the long channel of his spine. The tattoos that covered him looked almost alive in the wet light—black ink curling from his knuckles, wrapping his forearms like restraints, then spreading across his upper back in sharp, deliberate patterns that begged to be traced.
He was lean but densely muscled, every shift of his body economical and coiled, water tracing rivulets that disappeared beneath the shadowed dip of his lower back, then lower still. Even from behind he radiated discipline edged with something rawer, hungrier.
Julie's breath snagged audibly in her throat.
Dean turned at the sound—slow, unhurried—water streaming from his slicked-back brownish-blonde hair, down the sharp cut of his jaw, over the pronounced line of his collarbone. His eyes—striking blue even through the steam—locked on hers. For one suspended heartbeat he didn't move to cover himself. She saw the dark trail of hair that arrowed down his abdomen, the heavy outline of him beneath the water's distorting veil, the way his muscles flexed instinctively under her gaze.
Then he reached for the towel on the rack, wrapping it low around his hips with deliberate calm. The motion pulled the fabric tight across his pelvis, outlining what the steam had only hinted at.
"Julie," he said, voice low and roughened by steam and surprise. "Door wasn't locked. That's on me."
Her face flamed; heat pooled low in her belly, traitorous and immediate. "I—I'm so sorry—I should have knocked—I didn't—I'll just—"
She backed out too fast, nearly stumbling, and shut the door with a soft, trembling click.
On the other side she pressed both palms to her burning cheeks, pulse hammering between her thighs. The image of him—wet, unguarded, carved from tension and quiet power—burned behind her eyelids. She hated how badly she wanted to look again.
Inside, Dean braced one hand on the tile, head bowed under the spray. He laughed once under his breath—low, exhausted, edged with something darker. He hadn't expected her.
And he hated—fuck, he hated—how much he liked that she'd seen him raw like that, before he could armor himself back up.
Julie reemerged ten minutes later, showered in the guest bath, hair still damp and clinging to her neck. She wore one of the soft gray tops from the Integration Kit; the fabric clung slightly where her skin was still warm, outlining the soft curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
Roman sat at the island, tablet open, reading Directorate briefs.
He glanced up, eyes skimming her body for a clinical half-second longer than necessary. "Eat."
She nodded, pulling yogurt and fruit from the fridge. Her cuff blinked quietly.
Roman watched her. "An inspector from the Board might visit tomorrow. They'll expect you to answer questions."
Julie's spoon paused. "Questions like what?"
"Emotional stability. Compliance. Future orientation." His voice softened a fraction. "Don't say you want to go home. They interpret that as instability."
She swallowed hard.
Then—
Her cuff vibrated once. Unauthorized.
Roman's brows furrowed, but he didn't grab her wrist. He waited.
Julie turned her hand, heart slamming against her ribs.
MARA: Julie? It's me. I found a way to text without tripping the Shield. Please tell me you're okay. I'll come get you. I swear.
Tears stung instantly. Roman said nothing.
Julie typed with shaking fingers:
JULIE: Mara stop. You can't interfere with a claim. Please. You'll get charged.
Three dots. Then:
MARA: I don't care about charges. I'm not leaving you with him.
Julie blinked tears away, breath shuddering.
JULIE: Listen to me. Roman won't let me go. The Directorate won't either. If you keep trying they'll classify you as an obstruction case. Please. Move on.
She hesitated, then added:
JULIE: I need you to stay safe. For me. Please.
The dots appeared… then vanished.
The screen went still.
Julie set her hand down carefully, throat tight.
Roman asked quietly, "Did she listen?"
Julie nodded once.
An hour later, Roman called Dean into his office.
Dean leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, still damp-haired from the shower. "What's up?"
Roman steepled his fingers. "The Board pinged a warning. Unregistered communication to a civilian."
Dean's stomach dropped. "Mara?"
Roman nodded. "Julie told her to stop. Good instinct."
Dean swallowed. "And if she hadn't?"
Roman met his eyes. "Then they would have removed the choice."
Dean didn't need elaboration. Obstruction cases vanished into State Procurement.
Roman closed the report. "Julie complied without prompting. That matters to the Board."
Dean shrugged, trying to look casual. "She's smart. Scared, but smart."
Roman studied Dean's face a beat too long. "You seem invested."
Dean's heart kicked hard—once, viciously—but his voice stayed level. "She's in our house. If she fractures before evaluation, we both deal with the fallout."
Nothing betrayed the memory of her wide-eyed stare in the bathroom, the way her lips had parted, the flush that had crawled down her throat. Nothing showed how badly he wanted to know if that same flush would appear if he put his mouth on her neck.
Roman accepted it. Dean was his second. His lieutenant. His chosen family.
Roman didn't know attraction and guilt were currently tearing Dean apart from the inside.
Julie wandered into the library later, restless dread crawling under her skin. She trailed her fingers along book spines until they stopped at a worn folder on the desk, half-open.
Population maps. Fertility charts. Geographic birth rate ratios.
One clipping—old, yellowed paper:
"Directorate Officer Receives Commendation for Population Security Strategy"
A photograph: a woman in a sharp uniform, flanked by teenage soldiers. One was unmistakably Roman, younger, dark-eyed, already watchful.
The woman was his mother.
Julie's stomach twisted. Of course he was born into it. Raised by it. Honored by it.
She closed the folder quietly and stepped back.
That evening, Dean stood on the balcony, nicotine vapor curling from the device between his lips—no open flame allowed.
Julie stepped out slowly. He startled, then relaxed, eyes dropping briefly to the way the night air pebbled her skin beneath the thin gray top, nipples tightening visibly against the fabric.
"You're allowed out here," he said, voice gravel-rough. "Sensors don't treat this as exit risk."
Julie nodded. "I wasn't trying to run."
"I know."
They stood in silence. Cool air. Distant drone traffic. The sanitized city humming below.
Julie finally whispered, "I told Mara to stop."
Dean exhaled vapor toward the stars. "That was the smartest thing you could have done."
Her voice cracked. "I hate that it was the smart thing."
Dean closed his eyes. "Yeah. So do I."
For a moment the air between them thickened—charged, electric. She was close enough that he could smell her shampoo, could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. He wanted to step forward, press her back against the railing, slide his hand up under that soft top and feel if she was already wet from thinking about him in the shower.
Instead he stayed rooted, knuckles white around the railing.
Julie stepped back inside first, leaving him with the night and the unbearable weight of wanting what he couldn't touch.
Roman watched from the hallway shadows.
He saw Dean on the balcony.
Saw Julie retreat.
Saw the tension coil between them like a live wire.
His jaw tightened—not jealousy exactly, but something colder: risk assessment.
He turned away, entered his office, closed the door.
On his desk: the drafted report to the Directorate.
Bond Evaluation: 9 days remaining. Subject stable. Compliance satisfactory. No obstruction cases.
He stared at the words… then added one line:
Subject exhibits cooperative reasoning. Secondary bond indicators present.
Only then did he send it.