She responds differently to each of us.
That’s what unsettles me. Not that she reacts. Buthow.
With Sol, she softens. Her shoulders lower. Her breathing steadies like her body recognises a fixed point and settles into orbit.
With Kai, she flares. Heat, sharp and immediate. Her pulse jumps; her scent shifts brighter, warmer, restless in a way that makes the air feel thinner.
And with me?—
With me she quiets.
It’s subtle. Easy to miss if you’re not paying attention.
But I am.
When I stand close enough for my shoulder to brush hers, something in her loosens. The tension drops out of her spine. The edge fades. Not extinguished, just…grounded.
I should be satisfied with that.
Instead, I feel something ugly twist low in my chest.
Because she steps towardthem.
Deliberately.
She leans into Sol when she needs steadiness.
She walks straight into Kai’s fire just to see what happens.
With me, she relaxes.
Like I’m safe.
Like I’m not a risk.
I don’t want to besafe.
The realisation lands heavier than I expect.
Kai corners her in the living room that evening, words sharp but not cruel. He’s not mocking her now. He’s testing her. Seeing if she’ll rise to it.
She does. Of course she does.
Sol watches from a distance, controlled but alert.
I stay back. I tell myself it’s restraint. But when she laughs at something Kai says – low, breathless, not defensive – something inside me snaps.
Not violently.
Just quietly.
I’ve been careful with her. I’ve given her space. I’ve spoken gently. I’ve let her process without pushing.
And in doing so, I’ve allowed the other two to define the edges.
Kai is heat.
Sol is gravity.