Mom is still thinking about her 'dream'

Emma's laughter bubbles up again at some half-remembered story from their childhood, her fork scraping the plate as she chases the last bits of egg. Mother nods along, her green eyes crinkling at the corners, the easy rhythm of their shared meal holding steady. I lean back in my chair, nursing the dregs of my coffee, feigning the casual detachment of a son caught in the mundane. Inside, I track every shift in the air. The way Mother's foot brushes mine accidentally under the table, lingering a beat too long before she pulls it back with a faint flush.

"It really was such a real-feeling dream last night," she says suddenly, her voice dipping softer, almost confessional. She lifts her gaze to mine across the table, holding it there with an intensity that belies the casual words. Those green eyes, sharp and searching for a flicker of recognition, trace over my face like she's mapping something unspoken. Longingly, yes. There's a subtle pull in the way her lips part, a quiet hunger edging the maternal warmth. "So vivid, I could almost reach out and..." She trails off, blinking quickly, and sips her coffee to cover it, the mug trembling just enough to catch the light.

I meet her stare evenly, arching an eyebrow in feigned mild curiosity, nothing more. "Yeah? What was it about?" My tone stays light, oblivious, as if we're trading stories about weather or work woes instead of the ghost of our entwined bodies on that very couch.

She waves a hand dismissively, though the color rises higher in her cheeks, spilling down her neck into the collar of my borrowed t-shirt. "Oh, nothing worth repeating. Just... someone close, I suppose. Woke up feeling warmer than I have in ages." Her eyes linger again, heavy with that veiled ache, before she turns to Emma, ruffling her hair once more. "Pass the toast, honey?"

Emma obliges without a second glance, chattering on about a show she wants to watch later, utterly blind to the undercurrent humming between us. I chew slowly, the bacon's salt grounding me, while Mother's words settle like another thread in the weave. Nine percent influence, and already the dream echoes bleed into daylight, drawing her nearer without a single command uttered. The app's power tightens its grip, patient. Sarah's door across the hall waits, but this, Mother's longing gaze chasing me across the breakfast table, hints at deeper harvests right here. I smile into my mug, the empire layering itself invisible and inevitable.