“I beg to differ.”
I stare at him.
This man just let me deep-dive into his soul trauma, and he’s acting like it’s mildly inconvenient at best, an inside joke at worst. If someone ever did that to me—saw my soul, cracked me open like a goddamn piñata, and took a good look at the wreckage inside—I’d be curled in a ball questioning my entire existence.
But him? He’s standing here like I just read him his horoscope. He even wants me to do it again.
I drag a hand through my hair, still reeling from what I felt.
Fucking hell.
“Alright,” I mutter, rubbing my palms against my thighs like that’ll help ground me. “Let’s try again.”
This time, I don't touch him. I'm trying to do it from afar.
Now that I know what I’m looking for, I reach—not with my hands, but with something deeper. I sink into that quiet place inside me, the same one that let me slip inside him before.
And I search.
At first, there’s nothing.
But then—I think about his blue eyes, his long black hair, the way he smells like antiseptic and lemon.
And just like that, it happens again.
It’s fainter this time—less like getting hit by a tide of emotion, more like dipping my toes into the pond of his misery. But it’s still there. That same storm, that same fire. The weight of grief pressing against me like unseen hands, curling around my throat, squeezing tight.
I back off before I sink in too deep.
“Well?” he asks, voice low.
I open my mouth. Close it. Swallow hard.
“You’re…” I hesitate, running my tongue over my teeth, trying to find the right words.
How the hell do I explain that his soul feels like a painting left in the rain, like a symphony played on broken strings, like a goddamn star collapsing inward?
I don’t. I can’t.
“You’re…” I try again, tongue flicking against my teeth in frustration.
“You’re loud.”
He smirks.Smirks.
Which one is it today?
“Loud?” he echoes, clearly entertained.
“Ugh.” I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Nevermind. It worked. That’s all that matters, right?”
He watches me for a beat, then nods once.
“Good job,” he murmurs. Too soft. Too approving. “Then let’s see if you can do it with her.”
Right. Laura Collins. The Candy Maker.
I turn my attention to the photograph on the table, staring hard at her face. Kind eyes. A warm smile. A person who, on the surface, looks like she loves her neighbours and volunteers at shelters.
