What Thunder left behind by DT Martin 13 Lightning without
sound. Previously on what Thunder left
behind, Jeff's phone blinks at 114 AMA square of cold light in
a quiet room. The text reads like pulp and
still tightens his chest. Sub Level 3 stairwell behind
Killian come alone. He paces, then chooses motion.
Hoodie side gate night that tastes of wet metal.
The service stair breathes warmth from the old bones of the
building. At the base, a rust Fleck door
waits with a keypad that hums blue. 6 digits rise through his
fingers. The lock clicks on the last
number. Air shifts across his face.
Inside, a narrow corridor extends beneath low pipes and
silent server racks. Fluorescence, hum and uneven
rhythm. Heat gathers along his spine.
A warped exit sign struggles to hold its color.
They wait at the junction. Elena Voss sits on a steel
crate, posture calm, a black folder balanced on her wrist.
Her pale blouse keeps its cool in the heavy air.
Beside her stands Dax, broad and still, chewing slow, eye steady.
Jeff tries a joke about boiler rooms.
Elena lifts her chin a breath and opens the folder.
A translucent sheet catches light.
Gold thread circuits sketch resonance structures, feedback
harmonics, bandwidth curves that echo Lily's work.
He claims ignorance. Elena names architecture over
object, a harmonic compiler, a recursive loop that brings
signal into line with thought. Jeff says the names anyway.
Steven Lily. Elena calls it extraordinary and
inevitable. Omex wants the specifications
first. Complete and silent, digital,
clean, untraced. Jeff says they would notice.
Elena speaks to the bruise. He hides years without
spotlight. Lily at Stevens side, his skill
measured from the margins. Recognition carries weight.
Integrity without witness fades. Dax drops an envelope.
Betting slips. Screenshots.
A photo from Encore in Everett. Debt breathes in the heat.
Elena slides a matte black key card within reach.
One upload, one secure channel. No vows, only access.
They leave. The exit sign sputters and goes
dark. Jeff stands with the key card
warming in his palm and the envelope whispering against the
crate. Choice presses close while the
stairwell holds its heavy air. 11:34 AM Thursday, October 17th
lap 32-218-R. It has been five days since I
kissed him. Five days, seven classes, 2 lab
shifts, 3 meals skipped. I count them all as proofs, each
one adult echo in my chest. I haven't spoken to Steven.
He hasn't spoken to me. This morning brings us closer
than we've come all week. He reaches for a soldering probe
across the test bench, and his sleeve brushes the space beside
my wrist. No contact, not a thread of
fabric, only a faint shift of air between us.
Still my pulse races, scattering the numbers I try to keep in my
head. I am careful, surgical even.
Never look at him. Time my arrival to miss his
train myself to breathe only when he isn't near his scent.
Soap, graphite, citrus still clings to my hoodie from the
party. I haven't washed it.
I tell myself the dorm laundry line is full, but the lie tastes
metallic. It reminds me of guilt.
I can't swallow fast enough. Now I'm holed up behind the 4th
floor stacks, chewing a protein bar I can't taste and pretending
I'm not unraveling. I open our shared code.
Harmonic loop, the thing we built with tension and precision
and hands that nearly touched a cursor, blinks.
I stare back, unblinking. I start to type.
Impulse is pressure times area times time, so I estimate 1500
pascals of pressure. Perhaps the contact area
couldn't have been more than four square centimeters. 1.8
seconds of sustained contact, that's all.
A flick of energy, the same force it takes to send a marble
rolling across a desk. Small, precise enough to ruin
everything I worked hard to build. 1.08 Newton seconds, I
whisper. The impulse transferred during
lip contact. The kiss.
I shake my head and execute the next line of code.
Error line 244. Recursive mismatch.
My fingers freeze. I've checked this node four
times. It doesn't hold.
The output diverges and collapses, and I sit there,
blinking at the screen, Betrayed.
Or maybe I betray myself. Perhaps it's the way my skin
still burns where he touched my cheek.
Perhaps it's that I don't know why I kissed him, only that I
can't take it back. I rerun the loop, shift a
parameter, double check the anchor point.
Still wrong. The recursion collapses inward,
dissolving like wet paper. I squeeze my eyes shut, press
the heels of my palms to them until I See Stars.
My body feels too full of silence, of static, of words
I'll never say. If logic can't hold me steady,
what will? I close the terminal and press
the screen flat. The glass reflects A warped
version of my face, Dark circles, flushed cheeks, tension
carved into the corners of my mouth.
I trace the edges of my lower lip with my thumb, recalling the
pressure. Soft, searching, and then gone.
My breath hitches. 1.08 Newton seconds.
That's all it was. A force that meant nothing.
A force that meant too much. I stuff my notebook into my bag
and pull my hoodie tight around me.
Armour against the world, a shield for hiding.
I head downstairs, take the elevator to the dorm level, and
let the door to the Commons creak open behind me. 7:18 PM
Thursday, October 17th. Student Commons.
Laughter filters through first familiar voices, Tammy's high
and bright, James's low and musical.
I follow them through the fog in my head.
They're curled together on the couch with matching mugs,
James's socks mismatched, Tammy wearing half her glitter
eyeliner and none of her usual filter.
Look who's emerged. James says, padding the spot
between them. I sit and the cushions shift
with the weight of everything. I'm not saying Tammy looks at me
sideways. What's wrong?
She asks. I've been off.
I say everything. Scrambled, code, sleep, focus.
I fold my hands around the mug James gives me.
Even math doesn't make sense. Tammy leans in slightly.
Scrambled like stress scrambled. Or boy.
Scrambled, I press my lips into the rim of the mug and pretend
to sip. It tastes of Raspberry and
something floral, sweet, safe. I don't answer her question.
Instead, I say, Can I ask you something weird?
Tammy perks up. Always.
What was your first kiss like? With a guy, I mean.
They both blink, then look at each other.
Gauging how much detail I can handle.
James grins. Oh it was a mess.
We were 14, behind the gym and he was wearing strawberry lip
balm. I thought that was peak
masculinity at the time. Tammy snorts.
Mine was in the back row of a science fair.
I was doing a project on gene mutation and he tasted like
Twizzlers and panic. I smile for the first time all
day. It's small but real.
It wasn't perfect. Tammy adds softer now.
But it felt like being seen, like something clicked into
place. Doesn't have to be epic, just
has to feel real. James taps my mug with his.
Why you planning to kiss someone soon or have you?
I shake my head too quickly. No, just curious.
The Lye lands quiet between us, but they don't push.
We sit together, me curled between them, my chest a little
less tight, their warmth holding space around the parts of me I
can't name yet. Tammy tucks her knees up onto
the couch and watches me over the rim of her mug.
You always ask questions like that when you're avoiding the
real 1. I glance at her, then away.
What do you mean? James raises 1 brow.
We love a math metaphor, Lil, but we know the difference
between curiosity and fallout. My throat tightens.
I want to tell them, want to say it out loud so I can stop
hearing it echo in my head. I'm fine.
I lie again, quieter this time. It was just a question.
They exchange a look, the kind that says we know you're lying,
but we're here for you anyway. Tammy bumps her shoulder into
mine. OK, then we'll be here when you
have another one. James smiles and loops an arm
around the back of the couch. Next time, though, we expect
gossip or equations, or both. That makes me smile.
A real one this time. Small, brief enough. 5:32 PM
Friday, October 18th, Lab 32-218-R.
When I get to the lab, the calm from breakfast returns.
The fluorescent lights above buzz with relentless intensity.
The wall server hums, A gentle tremor vibrating through the
floor. Each sound pierces the air as
though the world turned 1 notch too bright.
Stevens, already there, had bent over the neural array code, his
back straight and unmoving. I take the long way around to my
station. We haven't spoken all week, not
once. Every lab session becomes a
silent war of glances not held and space carefully unoccupied.
We've mastered the choreography of avoidance, precise,
symmetrical, exhausting. I log in, pull up our loop,
adjust a minor sequence, knowing he'll see it.
He doesn't look up. Professor Hachette arrives 20
minutes later, all Gray edges and narrowed eyes, carrying a
data pad in a manner that might accuse someone.
He doesn't greet us, doesn't sit.
Stop. Both of us freeze.
He stands at the center of the room, expression unreadable.
His eyes flick from me to Steven, then back again,
measuring something more than code.
I've given you both enough room to implode.
He says. And from what I'm seeing, you're
nearly there. My throat tightens.
Hachette taps the screen on his pad.
Loop integrity has declined 12%. Collaborative speed is down.
Failure rate is up. You're coding as though you've
never met, let alone Co designed, the cleanest
projection arc I've seen in three years.
He sets the pad down on the center table hard.
I don't care what the issue is, personal, emotional,
intellectual, romantic, or otherwise.
Fix it. Stephen lifts his head.
Hachette's voice sharpens. You have until next week to
correct this dysfunction. If you can't work together, I'll
break the team. You'll be reassigned or removed
entirely. My fingers dig into the sides of
the console. Stephen straightens, but says
nothing. I keep my gaze on the interface,
the cursor still blinking at me, accusing.
Hachette leaves without waiting for acknowledgement.
Silence again. Thicker now.
Heavier. I sent Stephen glance at me
once, then again. Lily.
He says, quiet but firm. I don't answer.
I pull up a waveform graph and pretend to study it.
He says my name louder this time.
Lily. I flinch but turn, hoping to
avoid this conversation entirely.
He moves around the bench, stepping into my path.
Come with me, we need to talk. My heart stutters.
I shake my head. I don't look at him.
Please. He says.
Come with me. His voice isn't angry, not yet,
but the way he holds the silence after feels like a command.
From across the lab, I catch Jeff smirking.
Carter gives a slow, deliberate shake of his head.
I follow Stephen into the quiet room.
The room hums faintly when he opens the door and allows me to
step in first. It's cold, colder than the rest
of the lab, the walls designed to drain heat along with sound.
My boots echo once against the polished floor, then nothing.
The silence folds around me, insulation against the world.
White acoustic panels line the walls in uneven ridges,
geometric and sharp, the pattern that should feel symmetrical but
doesn't. My skin crawls.
The air smells faintly of ozone and vinyl.
Old wires disinfectant the ghost of too many arguments held
inside these walls. Three chairs and a single glass
table sit at the center, it's surface smudged with
fingerprints that catch the overhead light in fractured
Halos. I stay at the threshold until
Steven coaxes me in and shuts the door behind us.
The moment I'm inside, my heartbeat fills the room louder
than any noise. My breath feels too much.
Every motion echoes, every hesitation expands.
We stand facing each other in what feels like forever.
Then he speaks. Lily, you're not wrong.
He starts slowly. I'm not, I respond, confused.
No, I wanted to kiss you that night.
My hands go cold. Oh.
The word lands soft and small, almost beneath my breath.
He looks past me in a hush of breath.
I thought if I kissed you, things might get complicated
between us. Oh.
This time it nearly vanishes, my gaze dropping to the floor, my
fingers not together. But because you kissed me, we're
left in this space. I twist my hands, fighting the
urge to tuck them behind my back.
I'm sorry, I say, voice catching, looking up at the
overhead lights, blinking hard, trying not to let the tears
sting. He shakes his head.
It's neither here nor there. It's done and we need to address
the situation between us. OK, I say, barely above a
whisper. I fidget, thumb wearing a raw
patch on my knuckle. He hesitates.
I have a problem. He says, voice quiet.
I force myself to look up, uncertain.
Oh, you do? Stephen nods, jaw tense.
Yeah, I can't concentrate on the work.
All I do is think about the kiss.
I tilt my head, eyebrow raised, wearing a mask of confusion.
Am I the only one replaying that kiss in my mind?
So what do? What do we do?
I ask, afraid of the answer. We're both scientists.
He offers a weak smile, then pushes past it.
I say we recreate the kiss as an experiment, see if there's
anything there or if we just got our wires crossed.
Oh, OK. What?
I do not completely understand how we could measure a kiss.
The silence stretches. He doesn't flinch, doesn't
smile. The kiss.
He says it clinically, like a line of code.
We'll see how we feel afterward. My heart stutters once I hear it
in my ears. So you want to to kiss me?
I whisper to see if it means anything.
Stephen nods, but something flickers behind his eyes.
If it doesn't, we move on. Clean result if it does well.
I swallow hard. Oh.
His voice is even. This is the only way I can see
how to address this thing. Otherwise, we'll keep stepping
around each other. Heat prickles along my spine,
rising sharply at the nape of my neck.
My fingers twitch. I should say no.
I should run this through logic gates and neural response paths
and find a variable that says don't do this, But I don't.
Instead, I breathe. OK, let's run the test.
Before I can question how we begin, Steven steps forward,
cups my cheek with his hand, and gently draws me closer.
The calluses of his fingers skim my cheek, then settle beneath my
ear. His palm is warm, intentional,
the kind of touch that steadies everything else that's shaking.
I barely breathe. There's a hush in the air
between us, the world pausing to let this moment settle.
Then he leans in. I feel the space between us
dissolve, inch by inch. When his lips meet mine, it is
the brush of a sigh against skin.
Soft, closed. I'm not sure it has really
happened until my breath catches in my throat, my eyes flutter
shut, and for a whisper I forget how to stand still.
Everything is warm and new and impossibly gentle.
I never knew kisses could feel like breathing.
He doesn't hurry. His lips brush mine once more
with a softness so careful it feels like a question, a
whisper. The kiss itself is quiet,
closed, delicate. Yet something inside me folds in
on itself, the way a bird's wings draw inward at dusk.
There's no rush to his movement or demand, only the sensation of
existing in that breath of closeness where time blurs and
thought fades and all that remains is the warmth of him and
the way my heart forgets its rhythm.
When he pulls back, he lingers, hesitant to release whatever
fragile connection we've created, and neither of us
speaks as he finally let's go. I exhale like I've been
underwater. He watches me, not with
certainty, with something closer to awe.
He keeps his hands on my cheek, thumbs brushing lightly along my
jaw, grounding me. I need more data.
He says, voice low and a little unsteady, his gaze flicking from
my eyes to my lips. Before I can respond, his hands
slide fully to my face and he kisses me again.
This time he doesn't hold back. His mouth parts, mind gently
coaxing, then deepening the kiss.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking for permission, and
when I yield, he slips inside, soft, exploratory, a slow tangle
that sends heat blooming across my skin, low in my stomach,
behind my knees. I press forward, caught in him,
in the rhythm, in the way his thumb strokes my jaw.
Memorizing the exact shape of this, his other hand curves
against my shoulders, anchoring me, pulling me closer with a
need you can't simulate. It isn't careful anymore.
It isn't theory. This is real.
When he breaks the kiss, slow, aching, he lingers like the data
might vanish if he moves too quickly.
And I know this experiment fails spectacularly, completely, and
still I would rerun it 100 times over.
You've been listening to What Thunder Left Behind, written by
me DT Martin and narrated by 11 Lab Studio.
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