Not after his hand leaves her shoulder. Not after the wordtemporaryhangs between them like a giant question mark. Her eyes stay locked on his, sharp and searching, like she’s rearranging everything she thought she understood.
I recognize that look. It’s the moment someone realizes the rules they once thought existed no longer do. But Vi’s been through this before, with the fall of Rothwell. It shouldn’t come as a surprise.
Sting steps closer. Not crowding her. Not touching her. Just close enough that their knees nearly brush, that the heat from his body reaches her. Close enough that she has to tilt her head up a little farther to keep meeting his eyes.
I don’t interrupt. This is something I want to see.
Rogue leans off the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “You’re doing that thing,” he says lightly.
Sting doesn’t look at him.
Vi does. “What thing?”
“The deciding,” Rogue replies.
Her gaze snaps back to Sting. “Deciding what?”
Sting lifts one hand slowly, deliberately, giving her time to flinch if she wants to. She doesn’t.
His fingers settle at the small of her back. Not a grab. Not a caress. Placement. He guides her just enough that her chair angles a few inches closer to him, aligning her body with his like a chess piece being set on a board.
Vi inhales sharply, her shoulders stiffening before she forces them to relax. “What are you doing?”
“Making it easier,” Sting says.
“For what?”
“For you to stand.”
Rogue lets out a low whistle.
Sting ignores him. His fingers stay at Vi’s spine now, resting flat, the pressure light but unmistakable. The kind of touch that saysI can move you whenever I choose.
Vi’s pulse jumps visibly in her throat. “You don’t get to decide that,” she says, though her voice lacks the conviction it had moments ago.
Sting’s eyes soften just a fraction. Not gentle. Assessing. “Oh, but you’re wrong. Here in the Rot,” he says, “someone will always decide for you.”
I step forward a half pace. “That’s enough,” I say.
Sting finally glances at me. “I’m not hurting her.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re repositioning her.”
His mouth twitches. “So? You did.”
“That was for safety.”
“This,” he says, fingers pressing lightly into Vi’s spine, “is for reality.”
Vi shifts slightly in the chair, not pulling away, adjusting, like her body is unconsciously responding to the way he’s placed her.
I notice it.
So does Sting. His hand slides up a fraction, just between her shoulder blades now, steadying her.
“You feel that?” he asks.
She hesitates. “Feel what?”
