The Sillness Between Us

Therrin's POV

The stream whispered like a lullaby, curling around stones worn smooth by time. I crouched at its edge, the moss soft beneath my feet, cool water lapping at my toes. For once, the world didn't feel like it was pressing in around me — it was exhaling, letting go.

I pulled my tunic over my head, folding it neatly on the rocks. It wasn't like anyone could see me here. Grimm was off hunting or brooding. Dion… I hadn't felt him near since the chaos that left my body wrecked and Ari shaken into silence.

I stepped into the stream slowly, letting the cold bite my skin in soft pinches. The chill was grounding, drawing me into my body, back into myself. My fingers skimmed the surface, and I cupped the water to my lips. It tasted wild. Alive. Like something sacred.

"Don't you love the way it feels?" Ari's voice stirred softly inside me. It wasn't demanding this time — not pushy or mocking. Just… curious.

I closed my eyes. "It's cold."

A soft laugh. "But alive. You can feel it, can't you? The way it wraps around your ankles, runs along your collarbone. It's not like the coven baths."

"No," I admitted, lowering myself until the water rose to my chest. "It isn't."

I leaned back, floating just enough that my hair spread around me like ink through water. The silence settled between us again, filled only by the soft music of the forest.

"You're scared of him," Ari whispered.

I didn't answer.

"Dion."

I sighed, turning my head toward the bank though I couldn't see it. "I'm not scared of him."

"You're scared of what he means."

She was right, of course. She always was when she chose to be honest. That was the most frustrating part of sharing a soul with her — she saw through me, every time.

"He's… too much," I murmured. "Too intense. Too gentle. It makes no sense."

"He feels you," Ari said quietly. "Us. Both of us."

My throat tightened. "That's the problem. You want him."

"So do you."

I submerged for a moment, letting the water steal my breath, then surfaced with a gasp. "That's not fair."

"No," Ari agreed. "But it's true."

The truth settled in like the water against my skin — unavoidable, intimate. Dion had been patient. He didn't try to tame either of us, didn't push when I ran, didn't flinch when Ari rose with claws and smirks. He accepted what we were, even if he didn't understand it yet.

And it terrified me.

"What if he can't keep up?" I asked, barely above a whisper. "What if he breaks trying to love two halves of one soul?"

Ari was silent for a long time. I felt her hesitating, which was rare. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, vulnerable in a way I rarely heard. "What if we break trying to push him away?"

I shivered, not from the cold.

"I'm not trying to lose him," I whispered.

"Then stop pretending you don't already want to be his."

The admission pulsed in my chest like a second heartbeat. I pressed my hand to the skin there, to the mark that had started glowing faintly after our last shared storm. The place where the bond had sparked between us and Dion.

"I hate that you're right."

Ari's laugh was soft again, warm this time. "You don't hate it. You just hate that I say it first."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're beautiful when you're honest."

I opened my eyes, though the world remained pitch black. Still, I tilted my face toward the sky. I could feel the sun pushing through the trees. The dappled warmth danced across my cheeks and shoulders. I could almost imagine what it looked like — the way the light turned the water to silver, the way shadows shifted through leaves.

"You think we'll ever be normal?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.

Ari shifted in the space between thoughts. "No. But maybe we'll be something better."

I smiled faintly. "That sounds like something Dion would say."

"Then maybe you're finally listening."

I didn't answer. The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was full, glowing like the warmth of the water when I finally sank beneath it again.

For a few minutes, there was no war inside me. No sharp edge between Ari's voice and mine. Just stillness. Shared breath. The feeling of being known — completely — and not needing to run from it.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of trust.