Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, and he could make out his personal belongings highlighted in the moonlight - a desk, a Counting Crows poster on the wall, his crumpled clothes on the floor. He was home, safe in his bed. Wiping a weary hand across his forehead, he let out an exasperated sigh. Safe. What a joke. His hand dropped from his face as the realization hit him that he may have called out in his sleep. Trying to hear over the rush of blood in his ears, he listened for footsteps above him.

Nothing.

Releasing another sigh, he fell back on the bed and put his arm over his eyes. His heart was slowing, but his head was pounding from the sudden rush of blood. The memory of the dream was already fading. What had been so frightening? Something about Isabel…

He couldn't remember the details. All that was left was the abject horror at her being harmed in some way. Her absolute terror. Or maybe it was his fear that he'd felt.

Without another thought, Max swung his legs over the side of the bed and quietly opened his bedroom door. He had to see her. Just to be sure.

His room was downstairs, while the rest of the family slept upstairs. Without turning on any lights, he quietly climbed the steps, then paused outside of Isabel's door. He pressed his ear against the smooth wood; a small frown curved his mouth - of course perfect Isabel couldn't snore to let him know she was sleeping peacefully. He gently tried the handle - locked. With just the tiniest burst of his power, he flipped the tumblers in the mechanism and the door slid easily open.

Even in the dark, Max could tell Isabel's eyes were open, and she was looking at him. He closed the door soundlessly behind him.

"What's wrong?" Isabel whispered.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Max apologized.

"I woke up when you opened the lock." She brushed her hair away from her face. "Are you okay?"

At her question, Max suddenly felt a little silly. He couldn't even remember the dream, and now that he wasn't isolated down stairs, he felt somehow a bit irrational in his original panic. He gave one of his trademark half smiles and scratched his head. "I had a bad dream."

Now Isabel smiled, a smile that creased her eyes at the corners. She remembered so well as children, especially when they'd first come to live with the Evans', Max would show up at all hours of the night, looking petrified, telling her he'd had a bad dream, then eventually climb into bed with her because he was afraid to go back to his own. He'd always refused to tell her what the dreams were about, and Isabel was never sure if he couldn't remember, or if he didn't want to frighten her. It had been years since he'd slipped into her bedroom looking for comfort from his sibling.

Isabel lifted the covers. No invitation was given, and none was needed. Without a word, he slipped in and lay down with his back to her. Her hand went immediately to his mass of black hair, which she stroked lovingly. Isabel will make a wonderful mother some day, he mused, a small smile on his face. The smile fell away as he realized there wasn't much chance of her finding that out while they were here on earth - it wasn't like she could go to the local club looking for a compatible alien to mate with. Max's heart ached with that realization, and the fact that there was nothing he could do about it. He'd do anything for Isabel if it would make her happy. He would die for her.

"You're getting a bit old for this," Isabel said, her voice slightly amused. She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Yeah," Max replied, "and if you tell Michael about this, I will kill you."