Page 18 of Broken Sentinel

"What the?—"

"Environmental cycling," Trent explains, checking the control panel. "Looks like Lower Arcology runs partial power conservation during mid-shift."

I wrap my arms around myself as the temperature continues to fall. "They could warn people first."

"It's probably standard procedure for the maintenance levels," Trent says, his breath now visible in the chilling air. "Conserving resources for the upper levels."

Of course. Even Unity's much-vaunted egalitarianism has its limits. Those who maintain the systems that keep the arcology functioning are, ironically, the last to benefit from them.

The environmental panel buzzes again, then displays a scrolling message: TEMPORARY SYSTEM ADJUSTMENT. REGULATION RESUMES IN EIGHT HOURS.

"Eight hours at this temperature?" I check the reading. "It's dropping below standard habitability minimums."

Trent frowns. "Defective unit, or deliberate resource allocation?"

"Either way, we're going to freeze." I rub my arms, already feeling the cold seeping through the thin maintenance uniform. Unlike our Sentinel gear, these clothes aren't designed with thermal regulation in mind.

Trent studies the environmental controls for another moment before making a decision. "Standard survival protocols. We'll need to preserve body heat."

My heart does a little stutter-step. "Meaning?"

"Shared body heat is the most efficient method of temperature maintenance in limited resource situations." His voice is all business, but I don't miss the subtle tension in his jaw. "The sleeping platform has basic thermal retention capabilities if we activate the conservation setting."

Right. Huddle for warmth. The oldest trope in the book, and yet here we are.

"Very logical, Sentinel Vanguard," I say, trying to mask my sudden nervousness with sarcasm. "Good thing we're both trained professionals who can handle a little close proximity."

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see a crack inhis perfect Sentinel facade, a flash of something that might be desire or alarm or both. "I can still take the floor if you're?—"

"Don't be stupid," I interrupt. "We're supposed to be bonded, remember? Pretty sure actual bonded couples don't let each other freeze on the floor. Partners don’t do that either.”

The temperature drops another two degrees as we debate, making the decision for us. With resigned efficiency, Trent activates the sleeping platform's thermal retention field—a thin energy barrier designed to reflect body heat back to the occupants. It's a poor substitute for actual environmental control, but better than nothing.

"We should conserve energy until morning shift," he says, removing his outer uniform layer to reveal the standard undershirt beneath. The thin fabric does little to disguise the muscled contours of his chest and shoulders.

I swallow hard and follow suit, stripping down to my own regulation underclothes. Trent's eyes flash to me, then deliberately away, but not before I catch the quick dilation of his pupils.

The sleeping platform looks even smaller now that we're about to share it.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, trying to dispel the tension. "We've been in way worse situations. Remember the Northern Perimeter stake-out where we had to hide in that maintenance shaft for six hours?"

"Different circumstances," Trent says tersely, gesturing for me to get in first.

I slide onto the platform, pressing myself against the wall to make room for him. The thermal field activates fully on contact, humming softly as it creates a bubble of slightly warmer air around the bed.

Trent hesitates for just a moment before joining me, his movements careful and controlled as he positions himself onthe very edge of the platform, maintaining a small gap between our bodies.

"This isn't going to work if you fall off in the middle of the night," I point out, trying to sound practical rather than eager. "The thermal field needs body contact to function efficiently."

He knows I'm right. We've both had the same survival training. With visible reluctance that I try not to take personally, he shifts closer until our bodies align, his chest against my back, his knees tucked behind mine.

And suddenly I can't breathe properly.

Three years of carefully maintained professional distance, and now here we are, spoon-style, with nothing but thin regulation underclothes between us. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heart against my back, the warmth of his breath on my neck, the solid strength of his arm as he cautiously positions it across my waist.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that I feel as much as hear.

No. It's absolutely not okay. It's overwhelming and intoxicating.

---