Chapter 14 Ressa #2
"I know he is." That truth has become undeniable over the past week.
Falla's proven his character through action—every careful boundary respected, every panic attack handled with competence instead of pity, every moment of vulnerability met with steady reassurance. "I just don't know what happens next."
"You let it happen naturally," Shae offers quietly. "You see how it feels. You communicate when something doesn't work. You give yourself permission to want this."
Permission to want. The concept feels foreign after months of just trying to survive each day. Wanting implies having space for more than basic needs—implies believing in futures that extend beyond immediate threats.
But I do want this. Want Falla's steady presence and dry humor and the way he makes me feel capable instead of broken. Want to see where the kiss leads, what happens when I let myself trust someone with more than just physical safety.
The realization settles warm in my chest, displacing some of the ever-present anxiety.
"He'll probably worry about me constantly," I say, returning to my knitting with hands that feel less steady than before. "Keep checking that I'm eating enough and sleeping properly and managing my pain."
"And that bothers you?" Shae asks carefully.
I consider the question while completing another row of stitches. Does it bother me? Falla's attention has always carried clinical edges—healer assessment rather than personal interest. But the idea of him worrying because he cares rather than because it's his job...
"No," I admit quietly. "It doesn't bother me. That's the strange part."
Saela reaches over and squeezes my hand, quick and warm. "It's not strange. It's normal. You're allowed to like when someone cares about your wellbeing."
Normal. Another word that doesn't fit the reality I've been living. But sitting here with Saela and Shae, working on gifts while they tease me about kissing, talking about feelings like I'm just a person instead of a trauma victim who needs careful handling...
This feels normal.
For the first time since everything went wrong, I feel like myself again.
Not the broken version who hides in empty cabins.
Not the terrified girl running through dark woods.
Just Ressa—making crafts with friends, blushing about a male who makes her feel safe, cautiously optimistic about what comes next.
The feeling spreads warm through my chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Everything is changing. The thought carries traces of fear because change has meant danger for so long. But maybe this change is different.
Maybe this change is good.
"So what are you going to say to him tonight?" Saela prompts, returning to her leather work. "When you give him the wrap?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead."
"Liar." Her grin turns wicked. "You've been thinking about it constantly. I can see it on your face."
She's not wrong. I have been thinking about it—imagining different scenarios, rehearsing potential words, trying to figure out how to express feelings I barely understand myself.
"I might tell him I liked kissing him," I venture cautiously. "And that I want to do it again."
"Direct." Shae nods approvingly. "Falla appreciates directness."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've watched him work as a healer for years. He has no patience for people dancing around what they mean." She returns to her carving with careful precision. "If you tell him plainly what you want, he'll respect that. Probably be relieved by it."
The observation settles some of the nervous energy fizzing under my skin. I can do direct. Direct is easier than trying to navigate unspoken implications and subtle hints. Direct means clear communication, and after everything I've survived, I value clarity.
"Okay," I say, more to myself than them. "Direct. I can do that."
"You absolutely can." Saela's expression goes mischievous. "Though maybe save the really direct conversation for after the feast. Bronn gets uncomfortable when people get too romantic in public."
Shae laughs, warm and genuine. "He does not."
"He absolutely does. Remember during the Valentine's Rites when—"
They dissolve into banter about Bronn's reactions to public displays of affection, the conversation flowing easy around me while I work on completing the wrap's final section. And I realize with quiet surprise that I'm relaxed.
Actually relaxed. Around Shae.
My shoulders aren't trying to climb into my ears. My breathing stays steady and even. The cabin walls aren't pressing in because I'm not in the cabin—I'm out in the clan, participating in normal activities, laughing at my friends' stories.
Being normal.
The wrap takes shape under my fingers, row after careful row bringing the pattern to completion. I can picture Falla wearing it, the colors complementing his skin, the practical warmth appreciated during cold nights.
I can picture giving it to him tonight. Telling him directly that I want more. More kisses. More time with him. More of all of this.
For the first time in months, the future doesn't feel like something to fear.
It feels like possibility.