"And that makes it okay?" I demanded, anger flaring hot and familiar. "That we're rare, so you get to keep us? Claim us? Control us?"
"No," Ethan replied calmly, meeting my gaze without flinching. "Nothing makes it okay. I never claimed it was okay. I only claimed it was necessary."
"For you," I said bitterly. "Necessary for you."
"For all of us," Ethan corrected gently. "You included. You were dying, Ava. The suppressants were killing you. We saved your life."
"You took my life," I shot back, my voice cracking. "You took everything—my job, my apartment, my freedom, my future. You don't get to call that saving." Ethan was quiet for a long moment, his green eyes thoughtful.
"Perhaps not," he said finally, something almost like a concession in his voice. "But you're alive. And as long as you're alive, there's a possibility. That's more than you would have had."
I didn't have an answer for that. So I just sat there, clutching my tea, hating him for being right.
My hour with Leo was chaos.
He refused to sit still, refused to have serious conversations, refused to treat our time together like the mandated bonding exercise it was supposed to be. Instead, he dragged me into whatever project had caught his attention—cooking experiments that filled the kitchen with smoke, card games where he cheated outrageously, impromptu dance lessons to music that blasted from his phone.
"I don't dance," I protested the first time he tried, planting my feet, crossing my arms.
"Everyone dances," Leo replied, grabbing my hands and spinning me before I could stop him. "Some people just don't know it yet."
"Leo—"
"Come on, Red. One song. If you still hate it after one song, I'll leave you alone." I didn't hate it. That was the problem.
He was a good dancer, fluid and confident, leading me through steps I didn't know with surprising patience. His hand was warm on my waist, his gray eyes bright with joy, and for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, I forgot to be angry.
When the song ended, I was breathing hard, my cheeks flushed, something dangerously close to happiness bubbling in my chest.
"See?" Leo said, grinning down at me, his hands still on my waist. "Not so bad, was it?"
"It was terrible," I lied, stepping back, putting distance between us. "Don't ever do that again."
"Liar," Leo replied cheerfully, his gray eyes dancing with knowing amusement. "Same time tomorrow?" I walked away without answering. Through the bond, I felt his delight chasing me down the hallway.
My hour with Caleb was silence.
He didn't try to talk to me, didn't ask questions, didn't push for interaction. We just existed in the same space, him whittling by the window, me reading in the corner, the only sounds the scrape of his knife against wood and the rustle of turning pages. It should have been uncomfortable. Awkward. A waste of time.
Instead, it was the most peaceful hour of my day. There was something about Caleb's silence that felt different from the others. Not expectant, not demanding, not waiting for me to perform. Just... present. Patient. Content to simply be near me without needing anything in return.
"What are you making?" I asked one afternoon, four weeks into the routine, surprising myself with the question. I'd been watching him work, his massive hands impossibly gentle with the small piece of wood, his ice-blue eyes focused with intense concentration.
Caleb looked up, something flickering across his harsh features—surprise, maybe, or pleasure. He held up the half-finished carving, turning it so I could see. A bird. A small, delicate bird with spread wings, caught mid-flight. The feathers were individually carved, each one distinct.
"It's beautiful," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Caleb's harsh features softened, something warm kindling in his ice-blue eyes. "It's for you," he said, his deep voice rough and quiet. "When it's finished."
My throat tightened. I looked away, back to my book, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall. Through the bond, I felt his patient love. His willingness to wait. His absolute certainty that one day, I would accept not just the bird, but him.
That night, I wrote in the journal again.
I'm thawing, I wrote, the words ugly and true on the page.I can feel it happening—the ice around my heart melting, bit by bit, day by day. They're getting to me. All of them, in their different ways.
Mason with his gentle questions and his genuine interest in who I am. Ethan with his honesty and his respect for my intelligence. Leo with his chaos and his joy and his refusal to let me wallow. Caleb with his silence and his patience and his beautiful carved bird.
I hate them. I still hate them. But the hatred is getting harder to hold onto, and the empty space it leaves behind is filling with something else. Something that feels dangerously like belonging.
