Digital Shadow
Aren didn't rush to answer him. She didn't lean away from his fear or try to smother it beneath reassurances he wasn't ready for. Instead, she watched him quietly, letting his words settle, letting the raw honesty behind them breathe in the space between them. She felt the shift in him—not panic, not retreat, but the vulnerable tightening of someone confronting a truth they had spent a lifetime avoiding.
Only after a long, steady moment did she move. Not dramatically; just enough for her knee to find his with a firmer, intentional press, a quiet anchor that never reached for him more than he reached for her.
"Skars…" she murmured, her voice low and unhurried. "You think I'm protecting you from something out there." She held his gaze, not blinking, not softening too much, but offering him the calm steadiness he couldn't yet have for himself. "But I'm not shielding you from the galaxy."
A faint shake of her head punctuated the words.
"I'm shielding you from the belief that you're only a weapon."
Her tone remained even, but there was a depth beneath it—recognition, not pity. She didn't look away as she continued, "That's the thing you've been fighting all this time. Not enemies. Not shadows. Yourself. The version of you someone else carved into you. The one you were taught to be. The one you survived by becoming."
She shifted slightly toward him, enough that he would feel the intention of her presence, not the pressure of it.
"You survived because that was the only path available to you. No one ever taught you how to live. No one ever showed you that you were allowed to."
Her hand moved then, settling on the cushion beside his—not touching, not reaching, but echoing the closeness he had offered earlier. A quiet mirror. A grounding line between them.
"That doesn't make you dangerous," she said quietly. "It makes you injured. Conditioned. Carrying damage that wasn't your choice."
Her knee pressed a little more firmly into his, guiding him back into the moment when she saw his breath falter.
"And if you're terrified?" Aren's voice softened, not with pity but with understanding. "You're supposed to be. Anyone who's only ever known life in motion—running, fighting, surviving—has no map for peace. No practice in staying."
She let the silence settle for a moment, but this time it didn't feel brittle. It felt intentional.
"You're not wrong about one thing," she added gently. "I am here. And I'm not going anywhere just because you're afraid of the parts of yourself you haven't named yet."
Her eyes met his fully now, steady and unguarded in a rare way that she only ever allowed with him.
"You're not protected because I'm strong, Skars. You're protected because I see more in you than what you were shaped into. And I'm going to keep seeing you that way—even on the days you can't see it yourself."
She didn't lean in further. She didn't grip his hand. She let the closeness remain exactly as he had chosen it and decided to stay beside him with equal measure.
"So if being here makes it even a little easier for you to learn how to stay," she finished, her voice lowering into something quietly resolute, "then I'm here. And I'm staying."
And with that, she sat with him—still, grounded, present—offering not force, not rescue, but the steady truth of someone who wasn't going to run.
Akyla Rein (Skars)
Only after a long, steady moment did she move. Not dramatically; just enough for her knee to find his with a firmer, intentional press, a quiet anchor that never reached for him more than he reached for her.
"Skars…" she murmured, her voice low and unhurried. "You think I'm protecting you from something out there." She held his gaze, not blinking, not softening too much, but offering him the calm steadiness he couldn't yet have for himself. "But I'm not shielding you from the galaxy."
A faint shake of her head punctuated the words.
"I'm shielding you from the belief that you're only a weapon."
Her tone remained even, but there was a depth beneath it—recognition, not pity. She didn't look away as she continued, "That's the thing you've been fighting all this time. Not enemies. Not shadows. Yourself. The version of you someone else carved into you. The one you were taught to be. The one you survived by becoming."
She shifted slightly toward him, enough that he would feel the intention of her presence, not the pressure of it.
"You survived because that was the only path available to you. No one ever taught you how to live. No one ever showed you that you were allowed to."
Her hand moved then, settling on the cushion beside his—not touching, not reaching, but echoing the closeness he had offered earlier. A quiet mirror. A grounding line between them.
"That doesn't make you dangerous," she said quietly. "It makes you injured. Conditioned. Carrying damage that wasn't your choice."
Her knee pressed a little more firmly into his, guiding him back into the moment when she saw his breath falter.
"And if you're terrified?" Aren's voice softened, not with pity but with understanding. "You're supposed to be. Anyone who's only ever known life in motion—running, fighting, surviving—has no map for peace. No practice in staying."
She let the silence settle for a moment, but this time it didn't feel brittle. It felt intentional.
"You're not wrong about one thing," she added gently. "I am here. And I'm not going anywhere just because you're afraid of the parts of yourself you haven't named yet."
Her eyes met his fully now, steady and unguarded in a rare way that she only ever allowed with him.
"You're not protected because I'm strong, Skars. You're protected because I see more in you than what you were shaped into. And I'm going to keep seeing you that way—even on the days you can't see it yourself."
She didn't lean in further. She didn't grip his hand. She let the closeness remain exactly as he had chosen it and decided to stay beside him with equal measure.
"So if being here makes it even a little easier for you to learn how to stay," she finished, her voice lowering into something quietly resolute, "then I'm here. And I'm staying."
And with that, she sat with him—still, grounded, present—offering not force, not rescue, but the steady truth of someone who wasn't going to run.
Akyla Rein (Skars)