Consoling Mishka was still new to me.
Uncomfortable, even.
The old version of her never allowed emotional proximity. She took what she wanted, demanded affection by force, and hoarded attention like a trophy. She never cried unless it earned her something, and even then she guarded her heart like a blade.
But this Mishka…
She trembled.
She apologized.
She felt—deeply, painfully—in my presence.
And she did so without performing for a crowd.
No audience.
No manipulation.
Just honesty.
It was… disarming.
I stood there, hands tucked behind my back out of old habit, and felt something unfamiliar coil in my chest. Not weakness—no. Something quieter. The desire to protect instead of tolerate.
From time to time, I had wondered if I could ever open myself to her the way a proper mate s
