He’s watching everything. Tracking the horizon, the dunes, the shifting light, but his attention returns to me in intervals. Checking. I deliberately take a step closer and he stills.
I close the distance another fraction. Close enough that I can see the fine detail of the scars, the uneven lines where skin healed wrong, the subtle strain in his posture as he compensates without thinking about it.
He doesn’t move away or step forward. He holds very still. I lift my hand without hesitation. I’m not testing the speed of his reaction; I already know what it will be. I press my fingers lightly against his arm.
The shift happens the same way it did before. Subtle. Controlled. But unmistakable.
The tension drains out of him in a slow, quiet release. His shoulders lower by a fraction. His breathing deepens, evening out as if something inside him has been forced into alignment. I exhale slowly, not surprised anymore. I don’t know how or why, but the reaction is clear.
“Okay,” I say, softer now.
I leave my hand there for a second longer and he doesn’t pull away or react. He just settles. I pull back and like before it returns. The tension. The readiness. The constant edge beneath everything.
It’s not aggressive, toward me at least, but it’s present. I watch it happen, tracking it and confirming the reactions. It’s not random. It’s not my imagination. It’s me. I look up, meeting his eyes.
“You calm down when I touch you.”
His gaze locks on mine and there’s no confusion or hesitation in his eyes or on his face.
“Yes.”
He says that like it’s not something to question, just something that is. I let out a small breath, something that almost turns into a laugh before I catch it.
“That’s… useful.”
He doesn’t react to that either. Doesn’t seem to assign value to the statement. Just holds my gaze, waiting. For what I’m starting to believe is direction or instruction. Something to anchor to that isn’t whatever is running under his skin. I glance out over the dunes again, then back at him.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m not staying here.”
His posture shifts immediately, like something in him clicks into place.
“Move.”
I narrow my eyes slightly.
“That’s not how this works. We move because I decide we move. Not because you say so.”
A beat. Then?—
“Yes.”
I blink, thrown off. I didn’t expect him to agree to that.
“That’s not what I?—”
“Move,” he repeats.
Same tone. Same certainty. But now there’s something else in it. It’s not a command, more an expectation, like he already assumes I will.
I look back out at the dunes. The collapsed slope. The shifting sand. The heat pressing down. The complete lack of anything resembling safety. I exhale, slow and controlled.
“I don’t trust you,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Yes.”
