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I did not answer. Because I did not know. That was unacceptable.

My ŭre responded to command. Stress. Combat. Electrical systems. Pain.

It did not respond to casual contact. Not like that.

Talia slowly set the antiseptic strip on the table. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did I trigger something?”

“I do not know.”

Her concern changed into something more cautious. “Has that happened before?”

“No.”

Too fast. Too honest.

Her eyes sharpened. “So you don’t know what it means.”

“No.”

Silence followed. I hated the answer. I hated the question more.

Talia stood. She kept distance between us now.

I disliked that too.

“Can I finish cleaning your hand?”

The question was careful. Permission. Choice.

She had learned that mattered to her. Apparently she had decided it might matter to me.

I looked at the cut, then at her. “Yes.”

She approached slowly. This time, instead of taking my wrist, she touched only the edge of my palm. Nothing happened.

I should have been relieved. I was not.

She cleaned the wound without speaking. Her hair had fallen partly loose near one side of her face, and I found myself watching it move with each slight shift of her head. A few strands caught against her lower lip, and she absently blew them away without breaking focus. The motion was so ordinary, so human, that it felt like a violation to witness—something private and unguarded that made the tension in my chest tighten further.

I dropped my gaze to watch her fingers instead. Safer.

“Does your energy usually react to people?” she asked.

“No.”

“To other Zunatorians?”

“No.”

“Humans?”

“No.”

She wrapped a narrow seal around the cut. “Then maybe it was the injury.”