“Only when they’re interesting,” he says lightly.
Jamie snorts. “Everything’s interesting to him.”
“Not everything,” Caly corrects, flicking him a quick look before returning his attention to me. “But you are.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Love that for me.”
Jamie grins. “Yeah, you’ve been upgraded from ‘mildly suspicious’ to ‘actively fascinating.’”
“Thrilled.”
Caly’s mouth curves at the corner, the expression brief but deliberate, like he’s choosing when to let it show. It softens the intensity of his stare just enough to make it feel less like I’m under examination and more like I’ve passed some kind of test I didn’t realise I was taking.
“You’re adapting faster than expected,” he says, his tone thoughtful rather than clinical. “Most don’t.”
I can only assume he’s talking about the bond, since I’ve been here a decade. “Yeah, well,” I reply, rolling one shoulder with easy confidence, letting the movement travel through my body without resistance. “Guess I’m special.”
Jamie snorts immediately. “That’s one word for it.”
I huff out a laugh, and this time it comes easier. My body feels… right. Strong. Like whatever damage had been done has been smoothed over by something that doesn’t follow human rules.
Caly watches the movement closely, but the edge to his attention has softened. There’s just simple curiosity there now, threaded with something almost playful, like he’s enjoying the process rather than just dissecting it. “You’re not compensating anymore,” he says as if continuing a conversation he’d been having in his own head. “No guarded movement. No hesitation.”
I nod once, more for the sake of agreement than anything else. Though I do wonder when exactly it was that he’s observed me without realising. “Turns out not feeling like I’ve been run over helps with that.”
Jamie huffs. “Revolutionary.”
“But you flinched before.”
Caly’s observation sinks in quietly, but it cuts through the ease of the moment all the same. My smile holds. It doesn’t falter, doesn’t drop—but something underneath it turns forced before I can stop it.
“Reflex,” I say, the answer smooth and automatic. “Big unknown thing gets in your face, turns out your body reacts. Wild concept.”
Jamie nods straight away. “Yeah, fair. I would’ve done the same.”
Caly doesn’t contradict him. He doesn’t agree either. Instead, he simply watches me, his gaze steady and knowing in a way that makes it clear he’s not buying the surface-level explanation. He doesn’t push, though. Doesn’t pry or press for more.
He just… registers it. Stores it. And that, somehow, feels worse.
I hold his gaze for a moment longer than I should, then look away first, shifting my weight as if I’ve just grown restless rather than uncomfortable. Because the truth is, that reaction didn’t come from nowhere.
It never does.
It’s old. Worn into me deep enough that it doesn’t need permission to surface. Instinct built on years of learning how to anticipate, how to brace, how to react before something lands.
Don’t let it get close.
Don’t give it the chance.
The thought flickers but is gone almost as quickly as it comes—but not before it leaves a trace behind. I inhale slowly, grounding myself, forcing the tension back down before it can take hold properly.
Not here.
Not now.
“Anyway,” I say, injecting just enough casual ease into my tone to smooth over the shift, “you two planning on analysing me all day, or is there an actual point to this?”
The bond shifts in response. It isn’t dramatic, but it’s immediate—a subtle twisting low in my chest, like a thread drawing my attention in a specific direction. The awarenesscomes over me without urgency, without alarm, but with a clarity that cuts through everything else.
