A deep shiver runs along the length of my spine, exciting the nerves coming off the horns and sending powerful shooting sensations through my body. A sudden cold takes over, so I automatically cozy closer to the human equivalent of a radiator behind me.

That voice, it sounds like it knows me. It's almost familiar, like I've heard it before in a childhood dream. Still, I'm skeptical; I'm terrified.

"Jean Luc," I nudge his stomach roughly, waking him with a start.

The hand around my waist tightens and I rouse him, "What, Beverly?" He croaks blearily.

I angle my body as much as I can to see him in the near-darkness. Reaching the limit of progress in this small bed, my gaze is affixed to the underside of his jaw, "Jean Luc, I heard a voice. Someone was calling my name."

"What? Beverly, it was probably just a dream. Go back to sleep." I feel his breathing start to normalize.

"NO!" I say emphatically, the force of my voice waking him further.

"Beverly," he sits up a tad, "what did the voice say?"

I feel the need, no the gut-urge, to get up and walk around. My swift exit from him side elicits a groan, "Beverly, come back to bed."

"You don't believe me," I sneer, covering my head in my hands as I pace the length of the small room.

"No, Beverly that's not it." He rises to meet me, "I've learned not to discount strange phenomena…" He starts to chuckle, "Having been on the Enterprise taught me to give credence to even the most dubious of claims."

He's annoying me and I don't know why; I'm never annoyed by him, but right now everything he does is frustrating. "Go back to bed, Jean Luc," I – he gently gathers me into his arms, and I can't help but violently shrug him off. "I said go back to bed," I almost flee from him as I run to the door.

"Beverly?" His voice is tinged with hurt, but right now I don't give a damn.

I open the door and flee to the hall, "I'll be back." I call at him so he won't follow me. And, he doesn't. Do I even want him to? I just want to be alone. I'm scared, but I just want to be alone.

The stairs creak as I go down them. They've always creaked, though. They're old and worn. When I was a little girl, I would play this game where I would try to go down the stairs as quietly as possible without prompting any of the squeaks. Tonight, though, I let the groaning emitted from the old wood call out to its full potential.

The downstairs lays silent and undisturbed. I wander into the kitchen, seeking the solace of the replicator and maybe a warm drink. Maybe I'll make one of Nana's teas. Perhaps that will calm my nerves. I round the corner into the kitchen and that's when I find it; the candle is lit on the kitchen table and sending flickers off the dark wall. My heart rate speeds up; I didn't light it and neither did Jean Luc. I know he hasn't been in the kitchen; when we came in earlier, we only stayed in the living room before heading up to bed.

I stride closer to the candle. It's so familiar in all of its banal simplicity. The flame, though, mesmerizes me. It's not a simple blaze; normal candle flames dance randomly as they burn. This one, though, undulates enticingly. I'm drawn to it as I sit down at the table, bring myself closer to it, and wave my hand over it's apex, drawing it's warmth enough to burn my palm.

"Beverly" I hear the voice again. This time, though, it's comforting – almost alluring. Words bleed from my mouth in response, "I'm here."