I freeze.
Her fingers pause against my cheek.
“I’m not scared of dying,” I admit quietly.
She stills.
“I’m scared of losing you.”
The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
They hang in the air between us like a dropped glass that hasn’t hit the floor yet.
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t joke.
She doesn’t deflect.
She just looks at me with something raw and unarmored in her eyes.
“That’s… inconvenient,” she says softly.
“Yes.”
She leans her forehead against my shoulder.
The bond tightens.
Not violently.
Not urgently.
Just… closer.
We start moving like a unit after that.
Not consciously.
Not ceremonially.
It just happens.
She covers angles without being told.
I feel when she’s about to move before she does.
Our breathing syncs under stress.
Our shoulders micro-signal turns and stops and retreats.
We clear rooms without speaking.
It’s terrifying how fast it happens.
How right it feels.
How inevitable.
