I hesitate, every instinct rejecting the idea of closing my eyes, of not watching, not being alert.
"Trust me," she says softly. "Nothing will happen here. Just for a minute, trust me."
Against my better judgment, I close my eyes.
"Now," her voice comes, gentle but firm, "breathein through your nose. Count to four."
I comply, drawing air slowly into my lungs.
"Hold for four."
I do.
"Out through your mouth for four."
The air leaves my lungs in a controlled exhale.
"Again," she instructs.
We repeat this several times. With each cycle, I feel the rage ebbing, the red haze receding, replaced by an awareness of other things: the humid warmth of the air, the distant sound of water trickling somewhere, the rustle of wings, the scent of her standing close.
"Now open your eyes." She says simply.
I do. She's standing even closer now, looking up at me with those clear green eyes. No fear there. No judgment. Just something warm and impossibly inviting.
"Better?" she asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Because now that the anger has receded, other emotions are surging forward. Ones I've kept carefully suppressed these past weeks. Desire. Longing.
"Thank you," I manage.
She doesn't step back. "You know, you can talk to me. Ican see that what happened upset you..."
Despite everything, a smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. "I'm not much for talking."
"So I've noticed." Her head tilts slightly, studying me. "You'd rather observe. Watch. Protect from the shadows."
Her perception unsettles me. Few people look beyond my size, my scars, my silence to see what lies beneath. Yet she has, somehow.
"It's safer that way," I admit. "For everyone."
"Is it?" She challenges gently. "Or is it just easier? To keep everyone at a distance. To never let anyone close enough to see the real you."
The words hit with uncomfortable accuracy, like a blade finding a gap in armor. "You don't know me, Jade."
"I know enough," she counters. "I know you're loyal to a fault. I know you'd die to protect those you care about. I know you carry wounds that go deeper than that scar on your face."
I flinch slightly at the mention of my scar, the visible reminder of the worst time of my life. Her hand rises, fingers hovering near my cheek without quite touching.
"May I?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
No one has ever asked permission to touch my scar. They either stare and avoid, or pretend not to notice while their eyes keep darting back to it. But she... she's asking. Seeing it as part of me, not something to fear or ignore.
I nod, a sharp, jerky movement.
Her fingertips are cool against my heated skin as they trace the jagged line that runs from my temple to my jaw. The touch is gentle, exploring rather than pitying.
"Did it hurt?" she asks.
