Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
SOL
I give her space. Not distance. I don’t leave the house. I don’t isolate her. I don’t repeat that mistake.
But I withdraw deliberately.
Meals at opposite ends of the table. Conversations brief. Eyes averted first.
Control.
It’s what I do best.
It lasts less than a day.
By evening, something is wrong.
Not visibly. Not catastrophically. I’m not unsteady. I’m not ill.
But I can’t focus.
Every sound in the house pulls my attention. Every shift of air carries her scent faintly through the corridors, and my body tracks it without permission.
I’ve been in far worse states than this. This isn’t weakness. It’s agitation.
I snap at Kai for leaving a door open.
I correct Koa twice on something inconsequential.
I reread the same page three times and retain none of it.
It isn’t until I step outside onto the terrace that I realise what I’m doing.
Listening.
Waiting.
For her.
That shouldn’t be true. It wasn’t true a fortnight ago.
I close my eyes and breathe.
The air is cooler here. Cleaner.
It doesn’t help.
My chest feels tight. Not painful, just unsettled. Like something is slightly out of alignment.
I tell myself it’s guilt. It would be easier if it were.
The terrace door opens behind me.
I don’t turn immediately.
Her scent reaches me first – softer than the twins’, but sharper now than it was before. There’s a cold edge to it from the salted jasmine and coconut water. Clean. It hits my senses with a clarity that makes my spine straighten involuntarily.
Then she steps beside me.
Neither of us speak at first.
The agitation eases.
Not completely.
But enough.
I hate how immediate the shift is.
“You’re avoiding me,” she says.
It isn’t accusatory. Just factual.
“I’m giving you space.”
“I didn’t ask for space.”
I keep my gaze on the horizon. “You were angry.”
“I still am.”
“That’s fair.”
Silence settles between us again, heavier this time.
The proximity is doing something measurable to my system. My pulse slows. My thoughts sharpen. The restless edge dulls.
She exhales, and I hear the tension in it.
“You feel it too,” she says quietly.
It’s not a question.
I don’t lie. “Yes.”
Her shoulder brushes mine – accidental, I think.
The effect is immediate and unmistakable.
My body responds before my mind can intervene. The subtle tightness in my chest dissolves. The irritability that’s been humming under my skin all afternoon disappears as if someone cut a wire.
I still.
She notices.
Her breathing changes.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters. “I don’t want to need you.”
“You don’t,” I reply automatically.
She huffs out a humourless sound. “That’s not true. I can feel the difference.”
So can I.
The wind shifts, carrying her scent more fully toward me. There’s something new threaded through it now – not just the cold clarity it’s always held, but warmth underneath. Presentation. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Warm sandalwood. She smells breezy, natural and sun-kissed, sweet without being overpowering.
She complements my own smoked oud, salted driftwood and toasted marshmallow perfectly, and I just know that she’ll match my brothers too.
“You shouldn’t have stayed away,” she says after a moment.
“I was trying not to destabilise you further.”
“You did anyway. Again. We have to stop going round in circles like this.”
The honesty sits between us without defence.
I turn slightly then, enough to see her face properly. There are shadows under her eyes. Not from lack of sleep alone, but from this adjustment. From her body recalibrating to a state neither of us anticipated.
“You’re not unstable,” I say. “You’re adjusting.”
“To something I didn’t choose.”
“I know.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I don’t forgive you,” she says quietly.
“I don’t expect you to.”
The admission costs less than it should.
“But I know you didn’t mean to. None of us could have predicted this. But it’s like I don’t know how to stop being mad.”
She studies me for a long moment, as if deciding whether to step away or closer.
She steps closer.
The movement is subtle. Intentional.
Her arm presses lightly against mine once more but deliberate this time.
The effect is not subtle.
Every nerve in my body sharpens at once – not in agitation this time, but in alignment. The restlessness that’s plagued me all afternoon evaporates entirely. My breathing evens. My thoughts clear.
She inhales sharply.
“You feel that,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
The word comes out rougher than I intend.
Her hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against my chest – over my sternum. Not intimate. Not claiming.
Testing.
The contact sends a low current through my system that I have to consciously restrain from responding to. My instincts surge forward, not to dominate, not to bite, but to anchor. To pull her fully into my space and lock the alignment into place.
I don’t move.
She watches my restraint with something that isn’t quite anger.
“You’re not shaking now,” she says softly.
“I wasn’t shaking.”
“You were restless.”
I don’t deny it.
Her palm remains over my chest. My heartbeat slows beneath it, steadying in a rhythm that feels dangerously matched to hers.
“This is mutual,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“If I step away,” she says carefully, “does it come back?”
The agitation?
The tightness?
The edge?
“Yes.”
She withdraws her hand.
Takes one full step back.
The shift is immediate.
Not violent.
Not dramatic.
But noticeable.
My jaw tightens involuntarily.
Her eyes widen slightly.
“Oh,” she breathes.
The ache isn’t hers alone.
She steps forward again.
The relief is instantaneous.
I close my eyes briefly before I can stop myself.
When I open them, she’s watching me like she’s just solved a puzzle she didn’t want the answer to.
“This isn’t one-sided,” she says.
“No.”
“And it’s not just biology.”
“No.”
Her chin lifts.
“Then don’t treat me like I’m fragile.”
I study her carefully. “You’re not fragile.”
“Then stop hovering at a distance and start fixing it. It’s clear we both need contact…proximity. Why deny ourselves it? I don’t know about you, but I’m in enough pain already without inviting more.”
The command in her tone surprises me.
But not as much as the fact that I want to obey it.
I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away if she chooses.
She doesn’t.
My fingers brush lightly against the side of her neck, just below the mark I left there. Not possessive. Not forceful.
Grounding.
Her breathing evens instantly.
Her eyes flutter closed for a fraction of a second before she catches herself.
“This is insane,” she murmurs.
“Yes.”
“But it’s real?”
“God, yes.”
The wind lifts again around us, carrying smoke from somewhere distant and salt from the sea.
For the first time since the confrontation in the study, neither of us pulls away first.
And the alignment – quiet, controlled, undeniable – settles into place between us.