The hallway noise fades faster than it should, boots retreating, voices lowering, doors closing one by one until the packhouse settles into a tense, watchful quiet that feels artificial, like everyone is holding their breath at the same time. I stand just inside my doorway with my robe pulled tight around me, listening to my own heartbeat thud too loudly in my ears while the bond hums with a restless insistence that refuses to settle.
I close the door and lock it, leaning my forehead against the wood for a moment because my legs feel unsteady, and I tell myself that this is adrenaline, that it will pass, that I just need to breathe. The bond doesn’t agree, tightening instead, pulling at my chest in a way that feels directional, like a compass needle snapping into place whether I want it t
