My bare foot slips on the mixture of blood and dew coating the grass as I step toward a downed and moaning man. I right myself easily, watching his eyes widen and his mouth tighten as he shrinks away.

"Get it," he croaks, intending to scream but only managing a hoarse whisper. I don't know if his voice has been stolen by fear or injury, and I don't care. My smile expands like an accordion as he throws up his hands for futile protection.

"Stop! Stop it!"

He finally finds his voice. As I listen, something warm nestles into my belly, stretching my lips even wider, like a furnace forcing smoke through its clogged chimney. I'm the only one left to hear him.

I raise my hand and curl it into a fist.

* * *

At the heart of every operating system is a kernel. It has complete control over the system, handling the interaction between software and hardware. It sets priorities, schedules jobs, and manages resources so that the software can focus on its purpose.

It's not unlike the job of a lead developer in the week leading up to a big release like the one planned for this year's SynCon. I fix bugs, weigh risks, and prioritize critical issues. I track down the last few missing icon files. I brief the upper levels of management, all the company executives and investors. Sven gives me a reassuring smile as I finish my update, but it's not enough. It's never enough.

By the end of the day, I've worked myself into a trancelike state, and the sinister dreams start to lap at my consciousness again. The bodies, the blood, the smell of pennies. My foot skidding on the slick, sickly warmth....

I gasp as a clunk reverberates from the other side of the desk. I jump, jerking back to full consciousness. The bodies still swim in my vision, their blood painting the ground at my feet. I hear the man's pleas like a dying echo in a closed canyon. No escape.

"Yo, Ronnie."

Someone taps on my head. Not my shoulder, my freaking head. I yank out my headphones and glare up at Davis, but I still feel the rattle of my own breath as it trembles and sticks in my lungs.

"You okay?" He tilts his head, oblivious to the fact that normal people don't go around knocking on heads like doors. Brings a whole new meaning to head banging.

I run my hands over my face. I've never seen that man—the one begging for his life. The dreams have never moved past the initial scene, until this morning. Now I'm inexplicably standing free of the horde, while they expire on the ground around me? I take one long breath and hold it, wishing the lingering shakiness would recede.

"It's getting worse," I whisper into my palms, closing my eyes.

"What?"

I blink, remembering Davis. "Sorry. I must have fallen asleep."

"Maybe time to go home, yeah?" he says, concern written into the lines of his forehead.

I shake my head. "Sven texted me an hour ago. He's going to be home late, so I think I might just stay for a bit."

There. That's more like it. Focus on mundane things. It's just another day.

I swallow and reach for my keyboard again as Davis sits back down on the other side of the desk. The code on the screen is the same that I stare at every day, but nothing looks real. An unbearable itch, like tiny glass shards under my skin, has taken hold of me. The brick walls feel more like steel bars.

I notice Davis hasn't started typing yet, and when I glance over at him he's tilting his head at me with a reproachful stare.

"What?" I ask.

"It's six. Normal people leave work at five o'clock."

"I'm not normal."

He studies me for a few more seconds, then sighs. "How about we work on our keynote for SynCon? Might not get the time before the conference."

I bite my tongue to silence my relief. I don't want to be in this building alone. And I don't know why it bothers me so much all of a sudden, because I've stayed late countless times. Tonight, though, I can't shake the need to look over my shoulder for watchful eyes.

I stand up, rubbing my arms. Davis squints up at me.

"What's up, Ronnie? You've been weird all day."

"Nothing," I mumble. "This building is just giving me the creeps."

"Yeah," he agrees, to my surprise. "I guess empty office buildings will do that to you."

I stay quiet. That's not it.

Davis stands. "Wanna go somewhere else?"

I nod without thinking. I want to be anywhere but here.

We gather our things, bundling up against the New England winter. The wind still manages to shear through my heavy jacket, but the uneasiness fades away as soon as my feet hit the sidewalk. I let out a huge breath that hangs like white smoke in the air ahead.

"Better?" Davis asks.

I nod, and we start walking. I let him lead the way; he's more into the social scene than I am. When he pulls back the door of a bar, I waver on the threshold.

"Sven...." I trail off, pointing back toward the office.

"Sven is—"

Davis stops abruptly, mouth snapping shut.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Working late," he finishes neutrally. "We have time to kill. Better here than moping around all alone in that big house, right?"

"I'm not moping, I'm being there when he gets home." I sigh. "And he doesn't like when I'm around alcohol."

The warm air from inside leaks out, brushing our cheeks, but we just stare at each other until Davis nods.

"Right," is all he says, but it sounds a lot like he clipped off the rest of the sentence before it could escape, too.

I fold my arms. "I know what you're thinking, but he's not controlling. He dated a guy in college who died because of drunk driving. So you can't really blame him for that."

"And his high school girlfriend had a drug overdose, that's why no one in the office is allowed to touch a bong," Davis adds.

"Your point?" I understand Sven's reasoning for every rule he has, and Davis won't convince me they're ridiculous by having an equally ridiculous conversation.

Davis shrugs. "Look, the guy's obviously been through some shit, he's allowed to be affected by it. I'm just saying he's a little OCD. None of that stuff is illegal."

I just tilt my head, staring up at him with half-lidded eyes.

He sighs, stepping through the doorway. "I'm not asking you to drink, Ronnie. Come on, it's cold."

I follow him inside, because my nose is in that painful space between freezing and complete numbness. We've hit the cusp of rush hour, but several empty tables sit at the back. He weaves his way toward the nearest one, and a waitress appears almost instantly.

Davis looks up. "Fried pickles, please."

I throw him a not-so-subtle side-eye. I remember the one and only time he tried a fried pickle, at a company party. I also remember that the rest of it sat uneaten on his plate for the remainder of the evening.

"That's your favorite, right?" he asks.

"Yes?" I'm not questioning my own opinion on fried pickles—I love the damn things. I'm questioning how he knows that.

"You ordered them when we went out to celebrate after last year's keynote," he hurries to explain. "I remember because it was weird."

I sit back. Is that creepy? I shake my head. If he's creepy for remembering I like fried pickles, then I'm just as creepy for remembering that he doesn't.

We pull out our computers and settle in. The pressure of speaking at my first keynote pushes everything else away, and I nibble absentmindedly on the pickles as we reword and rehearse. Davis works his way through a very pink drink, which doesn't look like it packs much of a punch but gets his inner speechwriter flowing. His attention starts to wander, though, the closer he gets to the bottom of his glass, and by the time we finish the seventh slide, he's talking to the waitress more than me.

"Hey! Hey, I got a joke," he whispers. "What do you call a computer that can sing?"

He breaks into giggles before he even reaches the punchline. I roll my eyes and make a big show of unlocking my phone to check the time, then shoot to my feet as I realize how late it is.

"Excuse me," I tell them, even though neither one of them really cares. "I have to go."

I throw my things haphazardly into my bag, slowing down only for the laptop. It's eight o'clock already. I know that's not late by anyone's standards, but I'm usually home by now and so is Sven. I peel out the door like a spooked racehorse, almost knocking over a woman on the opposite side.

"Sorry," I mumble, but I'm already out of her earshot.

The frigid air stings my lungs as I run for the train station. Sven's face pulses through my mind to the erratic rhythm of my heart. What if he's walking through the front door right now, calling my name to an empty house? What will he think? That I'm in danger? That I'm keeping secrets? I haven't even texted him. I could be dead for all he knows.

I pace the platform until the train arrives, then rush through the doors the second they open. I plop myself down in a seat, where my leg takes up an impatient jiggle that does nothing to ease the tension in my muscles. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open my message history with Sven, swiping up and down and back up again before bringing up the keyboard.

I bite my lip as I reread the last gray bubble. I hope you're having a day as wonderful as you are. I know you're only downstairs, but I'm stuck up here and I miss you. I love you, Ronnie.

He'd sent it to me two days ago, while he was meeting with investors.

And I had replied, I love you too <3. That's it. After all the sweet things he said, all I could come up with was the most unoriginal line in the history of cheesy romance novels, and append a 90s-era heart. It's not even an emoji.

I look at the word "love" as if it's written in another language. Do I even feel it? If I really love him, I wouldn't have let Davis convince me to ditch him tonight. Or I would have at least texted him. What if he's worried?

I glance down at the ring on my finger. I know in my heart that I do love him, because I said yes.

My thumbs hesitate over the keys. He might not be home yet, and if he isn't then I don't want to worry him by telling him I'm on the train. He'll think I'm so late because I got mugged or something. He'll rush home when he should be concerned about himself.

I blow out a breath and start typing. What do you want for dinner? I hit send and lock the phone, but keep my eyes on the screen in case he texts me back.

It stays black.

It's dark when I get off the train, and I'm glad the house is only a ten-minute walk. I hate nighttime. I'm so stupid. Everything about tonight was a huge mistake, and all I feel is relief when I climb onto the front porch.

I check the clock on my phone once more just before I reach the door. I already know it's late, but I grimace again in the glow of the screen.

I push the door open slowly. Everything is dark. Maybe Sven isn't even home yet. My chest expands in a deep breath as I reach for the lights.

I jump violently as they come on. A male figure sits on the couch just inside the door, still as a statue, his fingers steepled and resting on his lower lip.

"God, Sven, you scared the crap out of me!" I exclaim as soon as I stop having a heart attack and recognize him.

He doesn't turn toward me, and for a second I don't even think he's going to acknowledge me, but then he speaks.

"Where have you been?" he asks quietly.

"A bar," I answer immediately, unsure why his tone sounds so carefully controlled, like he might explode if he doesn't hold back. He told me he was going to be late, and I spend enough nights here alone waiting for him that he should be able to handle one waiting for me. Then again, I realize in a flash of guilt, I should have texted him a warning.

"A bar," he repeats slowly into his fingers. "Doing what?"

"Davis and I were working on our keynote."

He sighs slowly, the kind that I wish he would just get over with because if he's going to yell I want that over with, too.

"I don't like alcohol, Ronnie, you know that."

I do. College boyfriend. I hate being the one to remind him of his painful past.

"Are you drunk?"

"What? No! I didn't even have any."

Sven nods once to himself. "Good."

I watch him carefully. He still hasn't looked at me. I need him to look at me. I need to see his eyes—the most beautiful part of him.

"Are you mad at me?" I venture, my voice wavering.

Sven's eyes close for several seconds, but when they flutter open he sighs. "No," he says, and it's mostly convincing. "Of course not." He pauses for a moment. "I was just so worried about you when I walked through the door and you weren't here. I thought—"

He stops, screwing up his face, and I twist my hands in front of me. I should have at least sent a text.

"Come here." He opens his arms and I obey, sliding forward like a magnet and dropping into his lap.

He grabs onto my hips to anchor me in place and presses his mouth to my ear.

"Every night," he whispers, "every long, exhausting night I spend late at the office, do you know what gets me through it?"

I know I'm supposed to shake my head, so I do, allowing my mind to get lost in his rough breaths.

"The thought of walking through this door and seeing your face." His soft sigh flutters my hair. "Kissing you like our lives depend on it. Sitting down to dinner like a family—because we're going to be a family, Ronnie."

My stomach jumps a little bit when he reminds me.

"There are so many things...so many people out there who could take you away from me. You saw those protesters today. What if they got to you?"

He takes my left hand and plays with the ring there.

"I don't need anyone else but you. That's how it works, right? When you love each other? That's all you need."

That does make sense. It is love, after all.

"I love you, Ron."

He does love me. The proof is resting around my finger.

I twist my head so that I can see his face. I reach up to touch it, trailing my fingers down the length of his jaw. He just watches me, his eyes half closed, enjoying the sensation.

"I love you, too," I whisper, but it's Sven who closes the distance between our lips.