The fire had dwindled to embers, the crackling logs now no more than warm whispers in the midnight silence. Above them, the sky stretched endlessly, a canvas of cold light and distant galaxies. Sciel sat cross-legged, arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes flicking between constellations and the silhouette of the person beside her.

Your voice, soft but sure, broke the quiet. “You’re thinking again.”

Sciel gave a dry laugh, eyes still skyward. “Aren’t we always?”

You shift slightly, shoulder brushing against Sciel’s. “You think like you’re trying to solve the stars.”

Sciel stiffened at the contact—barely perceptible, but it had happened. The warmth of it lingered longer than it should have. She willed herself not to lean in, not to glance at your profile even though her mind begged her to.

“I think because it’s safer than feeling,” Sciel muttered, then instantly regretted the honesty. She rarely allowed it to slip through the cracks.

You turned toward her. “And what is it you’re afraid to feel?”

Silence again. A long one. Sciel hoped the wind might answer for her.

“Nothing,” she said, too fast. “Everything.”

You gave a quiet hum of understanding, but didn’t press. That’s what made it worse. If you had pushed, demanded more, maybe Sciel could have buried it under annoyance or deflection. But instead, there was just… patience. Kindness.

A gust of wind fluttered your hair against Sciel’s cheek. She closed her eyes. She wanted this moment to stay frozen, trapped like a star in amber.

“I used to believe feelings were liabilities,” Sciel said after a long pause. “In combat. In planning. In relationships.”

“And now?” You asked, voice low.

Sciel didn’t answer. Not aloud.

But her hand, trembling slightly, reached out and brushed against yours, just once. Then retracted like it had been burned.

The stars didn’t blink. But inside her, something had shifted.