"Alright," Dante said, his voice steady, controlled. "We don't push too far. We test it."
Camille let out a quiet breath.
"That's your version of careful?"
"It's my version of not losing you to something we don't understand."
That shut her up for a second.
She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely clasped like she was trying to ground herself.
"Tell me what to do," she said.
Dante studied her for a moment.
Not just her words.
Her breathing. Her posture. The tension she wasn't hiding.
"If it starts to feel like before," he said, "you stop."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then you go slow."
She nodded once.
"Okay."
A pause.
Then
"Focus," he said.
Camille frowned slightly. "On what?"
"On that feeling you described. The one that's still there."
Her chest tightened.
That quiet presence.
She didn't like thinking about it.
Didn't like acknowledging it.
But it was there.
Waiting.
She closed her eyes slowly.
Took a breath.
Then another.
