Something was different.
I knew it the moment I stepped into the room.
Nine was already waiting, as usual—kneeling in the center of the floor, hands placed neatly on his thighs, posture perfect. But when he looked at me this time, something in his expression faltered.
Something tugged.
The bond thrummed beneath my skin like static, subtle but undeniable. It had always been there, like a whisper I'd tried to ignore.
But today—it pressed harder.
He tilted his head slightly as I approached, eyes narrowing the smallest fraction, as if he were trying to focus on something he couldn't name.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," he echoed.
The word was new from him. Not just mimicked. Meant.
I crouched in front of him and took a breath.
"We're going to try something different today," I said. "Less flashcards. More… conversation."
He didn't answer, but he nodded once.
I sat across from him, legs folded beneath me.
"I'm going to ask you a few things," I continued. "But you don't have to answer right away. You can just think about them. Or nod. Or tell me to stop."
His eyes flicked to mine again—sharper this time. Focused.
"Does your chest feel strange sometimes?" I asked. "When I come in?"
He blinked.
Then his hand moved. Slowly. Pressed flat against the space above his heart.
I didn't move.
"I feel it too," I admitted.
Nyx stirred. He's starting to feel you.
Nine's brows drew together slightly.
"I don't understand," he whispered.
"You will," I said.
He leaned forward—just a little.
"I feel warm. But not like heat. It's… tight."
"It's okay," I said gently. "It's the bond. It's part of what we are."
His mouth parted. "Us?"
My pulse skipped.
I nodded. "Us."
He sat with that word for a long time. As if testing it in his mind.
When I reached for his hand, he didn't hesitate this time. He placed his fingers in mine.
And this time—this time—I felt the bond tug back.
Alive.
Real.
I didn't tell him what it meant yet. Didn't rush him with words.
But I stayed there. Let him lean closer. Let the warmth build.
Because we were no longer just handler and hybrid.
We were becoming something else.
Something they didn't design.
Something they couldn't control.
He touched my hair.
It happened halfway through the session, so subtle I almost missed it. One moment I was guiding his fingers over a textured card, the next—his hand brushed against my hair, gentle, tentative.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
His fingers lingered, then slowly retreated, curling back to his lap like he wasn't sure if he'd done something wrong.
"You can touch," I said softly. "If you want to."
His gaze lifted. "Because you're mine?"
The air thickened between us.
I nodded once. "Because I'm yours. And you're mine."
He didn't smile. But his shoulders eased just slightly. A tension I hadn't noticed began to melt.
"I feel…" he paused, searching. "...Full."
It wasn't the right word. But it was his.
I gave him a small smile. "That's good."
He reached out again. This time, slower. His hand hovered by my cheek, then brushed it softly, curiously, like I was made of something delicate.
His palm was warm.
And I let him explore.
Not because he had permission.
But because for once, he was doing something for himself.
We sat like that for a long time. No scripts. No drills. Just quiet.
When the camera light clicked faintly in the corner, I didn't look away.
Let them watch.
Let them see what they couldn't program.
He's becoming, Nyx whispered. He's waking up.
And this time, I believed her.
He wasn't just my assignment.
He was my mate.
And I would teach him the meaning of that bond, piece by fragile piece.