She stops moving like someone hit pause. Her back is to me, spine too straight, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. I say nothing. The wind outside can speak for both of us until she’s ready.
“I fight it,” she says finally, voice rough. “Because I know how this ends.”
I cock my head. “How what ends?”
“This.” She spins and gestures sharply, like she’s cutting through the air. “Whatever’s happening here. Between us. This... static.”
I step forward, boots scuffing slow. “You touch a live wire enough times, eventually it stops hurting. Becomes a part of you.”
“No. It burns you,” she fires back.
I stop a pace away. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
She meets my eyes then. Not a glare. Not a glare exactly. It’s too soft for that. More like a warning, or a plea dressed up in barbed wire.
“That’s not what I’m scared of.”
Something inside me goes quiet.
“Then what are you scared of, sparks?”
Her arms fold like she’s trying to hold herself together. The flicker of motion draws my eye—her thumb rubbing the edge of a callus on her palm, a nervous habit I’ve only ever seen when she thinks she’s alone.
“I’m scared of needing something I can’t keep. Of depending on someone who vanishes the minute I breathe easy. Of... of trusting the wrong variable in an unstable equation.” Her voice is shaking now, but not weak. She’s fighting herself as much as she’s fighting me.
“You think I’m temporary.”
“I think everything is.”
I reach up, slow like I’m coaxing a wild animal. My fingers find the strand of hair that escaped her braid, tucking it gently behind her ear. Her skin is flushed and damp. She’s breathing hard like we just climbed a mountain.
“I’m not here to visit,” I say. “I’m here tostay.”
She looks away. “You don’t know me.”
“I do. Not all of you. But enough.”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
“I’ve seen your dreams,” I say. “Felt the way you flinch when I get too close in the meld. I know you grind your teeth when you’re stressed and hum under your breath when you think noone’s listening. I know you fix machines not because it’s your job, but because it’s the only time you feel in control.”
She opens her mouth again. “That’s not fair.”
“No. It’strue.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that the storm cracks loud overhead and the lights flicker. Shadows stretch long over her face, making her eyes look too big, too dark.
“I’m tired,” she says softly.
“Of what?”
“Everything. Holding myself together. Pretending it’s all fine.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Of being alone even when I’m not.”
I reach for her hand. Her fingers twitch once, but she doesn’t pull away. Our palms meet, warm and calloused and unsure.
“I don’t want to fix you,” I say. “Just... stand beside you while you fix yourself. Or don’t. Either way, I’m still here.”
Her head lowers like a weight just fell off her spine. “I don’t know how to do this.”
