“That is not your decision,” I say.
No reaction. Or maybe there is one, and I just do not understand it. I shift my weight again, deliberately slower this time, watching for the smallest change. Nothing. Not until I move.
I take a step, not toward the slope, but toward him. Testing something different. He stills. No retreat or advance, just watching. I close the distance by another fraction.
Close enough that I can see the faint lines around his eyes. The way his focus sharpens, not with aggression, but with something tighter. More controlled.
I stop. He does not move. Good. I tilt my head, studying him the way I would any problem I do not understand yet.
“Listen,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Whatever you think you saw out there—” his gaze shifts for a split second. Past me, above. Tracking something I cannot hear. Then back. “You are wrong.”
Nothing. No argument. No confusion. Just that same fixed attention. I take another step closer. Slow enough that he has time to react if he is going to. He does not, yet.
That flicker of something familiar tugs again. The way he holds himself. The way he does not waste movement. The way everything about him is… contained. I have seen—no. Not him. But something… I cannot put my finger on it so I push it aside.
Focus. I am in trouble here.
I lift my hand. Careful. Controlled. Slow enough to not trigger a defensive reaction.
His entire body stills. He is tense, but not aggressive. It is anticipation. I touch him, lightly, just my fingers against his forearm. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then everything changes.
Subtle. So subtle I almost miss it.
The tension in his shoulders drops a fraction. The constant readiness eases just enough to feel. His breathing shifts and becomes deeper and slower, like something inside him has been forced into alignment.
I do not move. He does not pull away. He does not react the way I expected. No warning. No recoil. Nothing. I watch his face, searching for something that makes sense.
“Okay…” I murmur.
I pull my hand back slowly. The change reverses instantly. The tension returns. Not sharp. Not aggressive. Just… present again. Like a system resetting.
My pulse ticks up, but not in fear, with understanding. He is not reacting to me. He is reacting to everything else. I am the only thing that changes that. I glance toward the slope then back to him, recalculating.
“You think I am in danger,” I say slowly.
His gaze sharpens with recognition.
“Yes.”
The answer is certain. I stare at him. Of all the things I expected that was not one of them.
“I was not,” I say.
“You were.”
Flat. Absolute. No room for argument. I huff out a breath, something between frustration and disbelief.
“They were not attacking me.”
“Too many.”
“That is not how that works.”
“Too close.”
I drag a hand through my hair, dislodging more sand.
“You do not understand what you saw.”
