That pulls me short.
“Both of them,” he continues, like this is weather, not confession. “Different priorities. Different tolerances.”
“And right now?”
“One is curious. The other is irritated and thinks this conversation is unnecessary.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I think you needed someone who wouldn’t pretend.”
My breath slows. Not from relief. From alignment.
“They don’t fight you?” I ask.
“All the time. They negotiate,” he says. “They push when they think I’m about to lie to myself.”
“Do they think you are?”
“Yes.”
I shift closer, down the steps to join him, before I decide to. Our shoulders brush – light, brief.
Ghost stiffens for half a second, then adjusts so the contact is deliberate. Maintained.
“I don’t feel invaded,” I say quietly. “That’s what scares me.”
“That’s how it works,” he replies. “If it hurt constantly, you’d resist. If it frightened you, you’d seek removal.”
“And if it cooperates?”
“You make room. Adapt.”
My hand drifts to my stomach. Warm. Calm. Steady.
Too steady.
“Was it like that for you?”
He nods. “Yeah. It was gradual. By the time I realised what they were doing, it was too late to get rid of them.”
“But you’ve not learnt to live in harmony yet.”
“You’re bringing us closer together. That counts for something.”
“I don’t feel pressured,” I admit. “I feel…assisted.”
Ghost’s fingers curl against his knee. “That’s the stage where people start confusing harmony with consent.”
The…babyshifts – slow, settled, unbothered. My stomach tightens, not with fear but with something colder. Calculation.
“They didn’t have enough staff,” I murmur. “Not for what they were supposed to be protecting.”
“No,” Ghost agrees. “They had enough to observe.”
A faint chill spreads along my arms.
“So this wasn’t an escape,” I say.
