Silence clamped down on the charting room—sharp, sudden, absolute.
Cassian's hand hovered over the panel, the projection lights flickering faint blue across his fingers. His eyes lifted slowly, meeting Atticus's stare. If he noticed the tension in the captain's shoulders, the fractional narrowing of his eyes, he didn't acknowledge it.
Soren felt every heartbeat as though the ship counted them.
Cassian finally spoke, voice level.
"Close," he repeated, "as in—proximity sufficient to alter the carrier frequency of an emotional field."
"That," Atticus said quietly, "was not a definition."
A small shift passed through the room. Elion straightened; Everett's jaw twitched. Even Nell, usually unflappable during debriefings, leaned forward a hair, alert.
Cassian exhaled through his nose—patient, unhurried.
"Fine." He tapped the data again. "Emotional fields interact. They fluctuate based on intensity, memory, and perceived threat or comfort. In most people, the patterns are stable unless agitated by external factors."
His eyes slid briefly toward Soren.
"But in Soren's case, the field is… more responsive."
Heat pricked the back of Soren's neck. Not embarrassment—something sharper, something like being suddenly, undeniably seen. He fought the instinct to fold into himself, to make his presence smaller.
Atticus's voice cut through the air again, quieter than before—but somehow heavier.
"And what does 'responsive' imply?"
Cassian did not look away this time.
"That his emotional wavelengths adjust in accordance with external presence. Meaning—"
He paused deliberately.
"—someone's proximity can alter the calibration of his field. Shape the amplitude. Change the resonance."
Silence again.
This one different—deeper, edged.
Soren felt the weight of every gaze turning toward him. He kept his own fixed on the corner of the room, steadying his breathing. The Aurelius seemed to steady with him, the soft hum of its hull smoothing into a gentler rhythm.
Cassian continued, unaffected.
"Yesterday's echo-surges occurred in direct correlation to two moments: his emotional spike during the leaning event—"
Soren closed his eyes briefly. Wonderful. That again.
"—and the interaction on the upper deck that followed."
Atticus's expression did not change, but something behind it did. A tightening. A calculation. His voice came low.
"Specify which interaction."
Cassian flicked through readings with a swipe; a soft chiming echoed through the dim room.
"When Soren reacted to the proximity shift."
A pause.
Soren found himself speaking before he meant to.
"I didn't… react."
Cassian glanced over, almost amused.
"You did. Just not verbally."
Heat crept higher under Soren's collar. Everett cleared his throat as if sensing the discomfort and decided to steer the conversation.
"Point is—these fluctuations matter. The Aurelius responds to certain emotional signatures, but this is the first time we've seen such a… precise alignment."
"A dangerous alignment," Elion murmured.
Soren flinched at that, but Atticus's head snapped toward her.
"Unsubstantiated."
He said it sharply enough that Elion blinked. But Atticus didn't soften it; if anything, his stance grew firmer.
Cassian tapped the next panel.
"I'm not implying danger. I'm implying correlation. And correlation must be understood before the next rarefaction band."
The ship creaked faintly—as though the wind outside pressed a fraction harder.
Atticus drew a slow breath.
"And your conclusion? Spell it out."
Cassian folded his hands behind his back, posture straight, tone maddeningly calm.
"My conclusion is simple: if we want the readings stable, Soren can't isolate. His emotional field fluctuates more when he feels scrutinized or uncertain. Proximity—predictable, consistent proximity—reduces variance."
Soren's heart climbed uncomfortably high in his chest.
"So you're saying," Elion summarized dryly, "someone has to keep him company so he doesn't emotionally implode the data."
Cassian shrugged.
"In a manner of speaking."
"And," Atticus said, low and clipped, "who do you propose?"
Cassian looked directly at him.
"Whoever Soren's field resonates with most."
The silence that followed was no longer the absence of sound.
It was shape.
Weight.
Direction.
And it settled—inevitably—on Atticus.
Soren felt it land like a hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades.
He swallowed, throat tight.
"That's—" He forced the word out. "—not necessary. I can regulate. I don't need—"
Cassian cut him off gently.
"You regulate well when no one is watching you attempt to regulate."
Soren froze. His pulse stumbled. Because that was true—painfully, intimately true. And Cassian shouldn't have known it.
Atticus stepped forward, jaw set.
"Enough."
Cassian raised an eyebrow. "Captain?"
"You've made your point. We'll consider an appropriate adjustment."
A beat.
"Meeting adjourned."
It wasn't a bark.
Wasn't even loud.
But it sent everyone moving.
Chairs scraped; boots shuffled; screens dimmed one by one.
Only Soren didn't move.
He couldn't.
His breath stayed caught somewhere mid-chest, suspended like the hum of the Aurelius beneath his ribs.
Atticus lingered, but not for the team—
for him.
No words.
Just the presence of him at Soren's periphery.
Close enough to steady.
Close enough to unravel.
And when Atticus finally spoke, it was almost too quiet to carry.
"We'll talk later."
The words shouldn't have felt like contact.
But they did.
________________________
The corridor outside the charting room felt too narrow.
Not because people filled it—they didn't. The others had dispersed quickly, conversations low and hushed, their attention fractured by Cassian's implications.
It was Soren who felt small inside it.
As if the walls leaned a fraction closer.
As if the ship had developed an opinion.
He exhaled slowly.
Regulate.
Steady.
Anchor.
He could feel his pulse in the center of his palms.
Bootsteps sounded behind him—measured, familiar.
He didn't need to turn to know who they belonged to.
"Soren."
Atticus's voice.
Soft, but not gentle.
Firm, but not cold.
Controlled—but only barely.
Soren turned.
The captain's expression held none of the earlier sharpness. But there was something else—something restrained, something tightly wound beneath the calm.
"Walk with me," Atticus said.
Not a request.
But not quite an order either.
Soren nodded and followed.
They walked in silence, passing the upper-deck windows where the light spilled pale-blue against the wooden frames. The Aurelius drifted through a cloudbank, its shadow folding and unfolding across the horizon like a living thing.
Soren kept his gaze forward.
Atticus, however, kept his angled slightly toward him—as though assessing, or perhaps… bracing.
Only when they reached the quieter stretch near the captain's alcove did Atticus stop.
He didn't turn immediately.
He spoke first.
"Cassian shouldn't have phrased it that way."
The words came low and deliberate.
Soren blinked. "…Which part?"
"All of it."
That startled a breath out of him.
"I didn't think he was wrong," Soren said carefully.
Atticus finally turned, and the full focus of his attention landed on him like a hand pressed to his chest.
"Soren. Listen to me."
Soren's breath caught.
"You are not an anomaly. You are not a malfunction. And you are not something to be calibrated."
Heat rose in Soren's face—uncomfortable, but not unpleasant.
"I didn't say I was—"
"You thought it."
Soren faltered.
Atticus stepped closer. Only a little. But enough that the air shifted between them, enough that the fine hairs along Soren's arms lifted.
"Your field responding the way it does is not a flaw," Atticus said. His voice softened into something quieter. "It is simply part of who you are."
Soren forced himself to hold the gaze.
"If that's the case… then why did you sound so—"
He hesitated.
"—angry, earlier."
Atticus drew a breath—controlled, careful.
"Because Cassian speaks in data. And sometimes data lacks tact."
"Tact?" Soren echoed faintly.
Atticus looked away for a moment. As if choosing his next words with precision.
"When he implied someone needed to be 'close' to you to influence your emotional field, he spoke as though your reactions are… predictable. Mechanical." His jaw tightened. "They are not."
Soren swallowed. "But he wasn't wrong about the proximity part."
Atticus's eyes returned to him.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"No," he admitted quietly. "He wasn't."
Something flickered between them.
Something fragile.
Something electric.
Soren lowered his gaze. "…I'm sorry if that complicates things."
A breath escaped Atticus—sharp, almost incredulous.
"Soren. Look at me."
Soren did.
Atticus stepped closer again.
Not inches—
but enough that Soren felt the pull of him, felt the gravity of that presence settle across his shoulders like a mantle he didn't know he could carry.
"You are not a complication," Atticus said, voice deep and steady.
"You are a factor. A variable. One I am willing to work with."
Soren's chest tightened.
He didn't trust his voice, so he didn't speak.
Atticus continued.
"We will address the emotional-field issue. Logically. Gradually. Without isolating you or overwhelming you." His eyes softened, just barely. "And certainly without treating you as something fragile."
Soren stared at him.
"…I don't think I'm fragile."
A faint smile pressed at the corner of Atticus's mouth—barely perceptible, but undeniably there.
"No," he agreed. "You're not."
Silence stretched—not uncomfortable.
More like the air waiting to learn a new shape.
Atticus shifted his stance, crossing his arms lightly.
"For now," he said, "stay within predictable proximity. Not… constant. Just consistent."
Soren's pulse hesitated.
"You mean—stay near someone?"
Atticus held his gaze.
"No," he said quietly.
"Stay near me."
Soren's breath stilled.
Atticus watched him carefully, as if waiting for resistance, confusion, refusal—anything that would allow him to retract the statement.
None came.
Soren nodded once, small but sure.
"…Alright."
Something eased in Atticus's shoulders.
Not fully.
But enough.
The captain stepped back a half pace, allowing Soren room to breathe.
"We'll reconvene with Cassian tomorrow," he said. "For now—get some rest. If you notice any more fluctuations, any echoes—report them directly to me."
Directly.
Not through Everett.
Not through the ledger.
Not through regulation channels.
Soren swallowed. "I will."
Atticus gave a final nod, then turned—
but paused.
"Soren."
"Yes?"
Atticus didn't face him, but his voice carried a softness rarely heard.
"You're doing well."
The words landed like warmth beneath bone.
"…Thank you, Captain."
Atticus walked away, his footsteps fading into the low hum of the Aurelius.
Soren stayed where he stood, letting the corridor settle back into place around him.
Letting the weight of the moment disperse slowly.
The ship's hum felt different now.
Not louder.
Not softer.
But aligned—
as though something had quietly slipped into its rightful place.
Soren breathed in, breathed out.
Close.
He could still feel the echo of it on his skin.
He didn't know what it meant yet.
But he knew he wasn't afraid of it.
Not anymore.
_________________________