I blink, wondering if he means because of the pregnancy and dreading the answer. “How?”
“Like you’re already accounting for what comes next.”
A faint pressure gathers behind my sternum. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s neutral,” he replies. “Just earlier than most people manage.”
I rest my hands on my thighs. They’re steady. Annoyingly so.
“I feel better,” I say.
Ghost turns his head fully this time.
Not relieved. Not reassured. Just attentive.
“That’s the dangerous phase,” he says calmly.
I swallow. My throat feels too open. “You’re not going to tell me it’s shock.”
“No.”
“You’re not going to tell me it’ll wear off.”
“No.”
“You’re not going to tell me to breathe.”
“Definitely not.”
A short breath escapes me – half laugh, half release.
“I don’t feel watched,” I continue. “Not anymore. No pressure. No sense of pursuit. It’s like the room stopped leaning.”
“It did,” Ghost says.
I look at him sharply. “You felt it too.”
“I notice when environments change their rules.”
My pulse ticks up. Not panic. Recognition.
“I don’t think it stopped,” I say.
“I wouldn’t expect it to,” he replies. “Parasites don’t disengage once the host stabilises.”
The word doesn’t sting. It clarifies.
“You don’t avoid it,” I say.
He shrugs. “Avoidance creates blind spots.”
“You live with one,” I say. “Two, technically.”
His jaw tightens, then loosens again. “Yes.”
“Do they talk to you?”
“Yes.”
