Author's Note: If this story turns rated M, would you still read it? Also, if it does turn rated M, who do you want to be on top?

I had another nightmare last night.

I seem to do that a lot.

How embarrassing. How childish.

How like me.

The nightmare was short this time, though. It was odd. Usually my nightmares last the entire night, leaving me tossing, turning, leaving me waking up in a cold sweat, my sheets strangling me.

But this one was short. And not graphic at all.

It was just her, Hisana, walking away from me. And then, nothing else. No killings, no rapings, no abductions. Nothing like that. Just her walking, walking, walking away.

And then I begin to wonder if Renji saw.

I begin to contemplate what to say about it. I begin to wonder if he saw, and if he did, what he did about it.

I begin to wonder what he thinks about me now.

And, strangely enough, I don't fear it.

After a long day of lectures, I'm ready to tuck in, but I want to see observe. I want to see him. What he does. If he has nightmares, too.

It wouldn't surprise me if he did.

It does surprise me, when, from the very slightest triangle of sight, I see him staring at me. Staring, staring. Not going to sleep. Not lying down and curling up under the covers.

He watches me.

I find this intriguing. He intrigues me.

Hisana used to stroke my hair.

She liked to play with it, claiming that it was soft to the touch and silky and it was like the hair she'd always wanted but had never gotten.

I let her do whatever she wanted with it, because she was her.

Her hands were warm and smooth and soft. They were one of the few things I will always remember about her.

Renji intrigues me even more when he gets out of bed and starts walking toward me.

I quickly close my eyes fully so that he doesn't suspect.

So that he doesn't know.

And when he stops by my bed, I can feel his eyes on me. Watching.

But for what?

And then, I hear his clothes rustle as he moves, and I wonder what he is doing.

Then I feel it.

I feel a hand on my throat, feather light touch. And I vaguely wonder if he is going to kill me.

And then the hand moves up, up, up, not touching my face except to brush a stray strand of hair off my forehead.

And then he strokes.

Renji's hands are large and rough and callused. But they are as gentle as Hisana's ever were.

Fingers comb through my hair lightly, making sure not to get tangled, making sure not to "wake" me.

The palm of his hand brushes against my scalp, leaving raw sensation in its wake.

And I wonder if he wants me.

He does this until dawn paints my face a golden yellow, and then he slips away, back to his own bed.

I have this intense desire to sit up and call him back, to tell him that I liked it, to tell him that I want more.

But I can't.

Because then he'd know.

And if he knew, he might never do it again.

And I want him to do it again.

I wonder just who he is.