She hadn't been looking for this-- hadn't intended this. At least she didn't believe so. And yet it seemed so.

But that was the thing about the mind, she supposed; it had an agenda that was known to its host and an agenda that wasn't. There was always something the brain was doing on the periphery, in the back, unaccounted for, while it displayed what the host wanted to see, or the reality the host could not escape because the mind, for all its power, could not actually do the impossible. There was always subconscious thought.

There was always subterfuge.

The possibility of it was too great. Allura tried-- insisted that it was not the case, that she was simply still in the process of recovery, that she would never do something like that to Lance-- she'd never do that to anyone-- and there was no way she could possibly feel that strongly, have so much doubt, about what had happened, about him. . .

And yet she saw Lotor's face when she took Lance's into her hand.

She felt the smooth, cool texture of his gloves when she took Lance's hand, she felt his lips on hers everytime she and Lance kissed, she heard his voice when they laughed, leaned against his chest, felt his hair, heard his heart.

It was far from her intention in establishing a relationship with Lance to use him. She didn't even think herself capable of such greed, of feeling such an intense sense of eagerness and loss that she would take another's hands and make them what she wanted them to be. But as it seemed-- it appeared as if-- what she was feeling. . .

Allura frowned down at their interlocked fingers, becoming more aware of the heat against her shoulder with every second. It was comforting in the coolness of the evening. She sighed as her nail tapped the wood of the bench, her fingers tightening around his. Deep blue Rynix cloth turned to tanned skin; smooth, cool finger pads turned to warm and anxious fingertips that tapped rapidly against the back of her hand; dull clawtips became short fingernails.

"Hey," he said from beside her, and it was such an informal address that Allura did not play his voice over it. Instead, she heard the right voice.

(Then why did it sound so wrong?)

Allura looked up at Lance, leaning away from his side some to get a good view of his face. He looked content, happy, but concerned as well. His smile was crooked. "Are you alright, Allura?" he asked.

Allura laughed humorlessly and hoped that he could not hear the sorrow in it. How was she supposed to know? Was it okay for her to desire him like this? She thought not, felt. . . confused. Not about loyalties or love, but about right and wrong. She thought about it a little more, fiddled with their fingers and hummed as if she were contemplating his question. It took a while.

Allura looked back down at their hands, giving his a light squeeze, and withheld the sigh that wished to escape her. Her eyes glazed over as she focused on the fingertips that had stopped tapping, and the tan skin that was turning, and the fingernails that were elongating. She leaned into his side again. She decided that she didn't care.

(This was definitely wrong.)

"Allura?" he asked, a little more worriedly this time, "What are you thinking about?"

A smile came to her lips, an attempt to placate him. And this time she let her sigh go, the light and airy smell of dawn turning into the deep scent of petrichor at dusk, lean muscle becoming firm and unyielding against her shoulder. She answered him in a breath that was quickly fleeting.

(She supposed she would have to accept it, then.)

"Us."