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“What does it feel like?”
Sophie turns to look at him, his eyes icy as the cold sea. They lack their usual amusement, and Sophie notes that he must have been deep in his thoughts before he spoke. The charming Keefe Sencen was once again just what he always pretended not to be—a scared teenage boy.
She never minded him like this. She loved the way he made her laugh, but Sophie also liked seeing him not putting on an act to be liked and noticed. Keefe crafted himself to be admired, but it never seemed to occur to him that he didn’t need to put on a show. Sophie adores him no matter what he thinks, even if it’s closer to the truth than he’d prefer.
So instead of asking him about the dark circles under his eyes, the way his whole body is teeming with tension—like at one wrong look he could bolt in any direction—Sophie laces her fingers with his. She gently grazes his palm with her thumb, rubbing in small circles.
“It…?” Keefe’s eyes sharpen for a moment, having been dully gazing at the blue sky above them. He shrugs with one shoulder, casually, as if Sophie can’t see the apprehension on his face. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, searching for the right words. “Enhancing, feeling other people’s power, I guess. Does it—does it hurt?”
Now it’s Sophie’s turn to sit in thoughtful silence. Keefe doesn’t push, and his hand stays interlocked with hers as she mulls over her response in her head. She tries to find a way to describe it—the way that it’s not just power that flows through her veins, her bones, her heart. She thinks of all the times she’s ever tried inflicting on someone she loved, the sudden understanding she had for everything they’d worked toward, everything they wanted to reach.
And as more and more feeling builds up behind each memory, Sophie lets out a measured breath, feeling her own chest shudder with anxious butterflies. She’d never actually described her abilities to Keefe before, or anyone other than Bronte really. When she was with Fitz, he understood; he could see into her head after all, and usually Keefe could feel the emotions that came with each of her talents.
“It... it doesn’t hurt, not the way you’d think it would anyway,” she starts, her eyes focused on a branch of flowers on Calla’s tree, the way they sang sweet songs to her in the wind. And she trails off. Because the songs in the trees are just what she’d been reaching for. Their soft voices lilting at words of encouragement and kindness, telling her that she could lift her foot off the ground, one step at a time, and carry herself into the loving embrace of home.
Sophie turns to look at Keefe. He’s already looking at her, his gaze soft as he watches her mull over her thoughts. Carefully, she unlaces her hand from Keefe’s, bringing it up to gently sweep away a loose curl from his forehead. She smiles gently before she clears her throat.
“It feels like… gardening.”
Keefe’s eyebrows knit together. “… Gardening?”
She nods. “It’s hard to explain. When I enhance, it’s not unlike when empaths use their ability to feel someone’s emotions, but it’s almost like inflicting too?”
“I’m not following.”
Sophie spreads her fingers wide and closes them into a fist a few times, feeling a warmth in her chest as she tugs at her heart. She reaches down, hesitating right before her skin brushes against his.
“Do you, uh—want to feel it? It might be a little intense.”
He looks around, at Havenfield’s rolling plains, quiet except for the sweeping of the grass in the breeze and the faint sound of sea foam hitting sharp rocks. “I trust you, Foster. Besides, now I’m curious.”
Sophie snorts. “I’m going to try something to see if it’ll make the transition easier. Bronte taught me this with my inflicting, so I don’t know how it will transfer to enhancing.”
“I’ll give it a shot.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Anything to hold your hand.”
She ignores the triumphant look he shoots her when heat rushes to her face.
“I want you to close your eyes and imagine how a flower grows. Start with it as a seed and—”
“What kind?”
Sophie opens one eye to peek at him. “Sorry?”
“What kind of flower should I imagine?” Keefe asks.
She hums for a second before words flash behind her brain. The smell of lavender often eases anxiety and helps calm racing thoughts. It’s from a placard in the botanical garden near her childhood home. Amy loved to race to the lamb’s ear and marvel at its velvety leaves, but Sophie stood back near the lavender, willing it to quiet the voices in her head.
“Lavender.”
He nods and wrenches both of his eyes shut like a child. Sophie stifles a giggle and continues.
“You have a seed, and it’s dormant as it’s in the awn of the flower. Then, the wind spreads it down to the ground, where it settles, and eventually takes root. The roots aren’t strong, but they’re a start, a foundation for the future.”
Sophie hovers her hands over Keefe’s, only a few inches from the skin of his palms. He lets out a breath, and Sophie pauses, searching for any sign of discomfort. “Does this hurt?”
“No,” his voice is shaky. “I-it tickles. It feels like little feathers brushing against my skin—you can keep going.”
“Okay, now the roots start to spread, growing thicker and longer, rooting the seed in place. This is your dormant ability. You probably don’t remember what it feels like anymore, not to know that something is there but to feel it. Deep under the dark earth and loose soil.”
She feels it with him, imagines a tiny blond boy who watches the lives of his parents fall apart. Who takes that sadness, that anger, that lack of affection, and shoves it deep within him. The boy who saw other kids proudly show off a subpar accomplishment to an adult who endlessly praised them nonetheless—the sprouts of jealousy. The boy who found a friend, sleepless nights and hot afternoons spent climbing trees and turning rocks. Belonging, love, euphoria.
More flashes by, much too quickly to really catch. Hot white anger. Dark sopping loneliness. Laughter, joy, slowly bubbling up. Peaceful calm serenity.
The feelings spread across her chest down toward her fingertips, the soles of her feet. It spreads all through her body, growing and growing until she’s sure it has nowhere else to go—nowhere but out.
“Finally, finally a sprout forms from the seed, reaching upward, toward an entire world it doesn’t quite know yet.” Keefe’s other hand balls into a fist at his side, and his eyebrows knit together in concentration and anticipation.
“Then after fighting day after day and night after night, It. Breaks. Open. You reach toward the sky with your hands, fighting to survive, a tiny green stalk against the big blue. You are alive.”
Sophie brings down the tips of her fingers against Keefe’s palm, and he gasps. His eyes water—Sophie knows it’s not from pain, but from a memory; the day he became an Empath. The day that emotions swam behind his eyes, unsure if they were his own. He wanted to laugh. He did, stars, he laughed for hours and hours even as the tears streaming down his face dried into salty lines. He was curled up in a tight ball, unable to move even an inch. Every time his heart beat, he took a breath, he did anything to exist, it made the tide crash harder. His hands, his head, his chest—all of it ached. He didn’t know who he was or what he just felt. All of those times before, it was like they’d been building for this exact moment. A dam breaks. A bomb explodes. His parents don’t check on him.
“You fight it don’t you? The world’s so scary. It’s so big. So lonely. But you keep going, onwards and upwards. Each moment is a fight that you win, and you keep trying to get further from the ground that you started from. The dark earth was so suffocating, wasn’t it? It was so restricting, the way they pressed against you. It’s a beautiful thing—being free. Being able to grow. But it’s so lonely.”
Alone. It’s the weight of the room he’d spent his entire life in. He’d escape each day just to be dragged back. Locked in. Thrown down. He can’t hold it in any longer.
“Good, don’t hold it in, love. It’s too much isn’t it, the pressure of the world?”
Yes.
Yes, it’s too much.
Be my home.
Please care.
I’m so full of guilt and regret, I just want to be loved.
“The thing about flowers is they can’t see; they can’t understand that the world isn’t just about survival. Lavender will grow its flowers and release its pollen to the open air. In the hope that maybe some part of it will survive. Some part of it will make it.”
“I will make it,” he whispers now.
“Say it again.”
“I will make it.”
“Again.”
“I will make it.”
Sophie wipes at his tears. Keefe opens his eyes and lets out a sob. He falls into her, broad shoulders shaking as he tries to hold any semblance of himself together. She apologizes quietly, a pang of guilt shooting through her. He doesn’t hear her for a while, so she just lets him fall apart in her arms. It’s like this sometimes, when they’re alone. Any humor fades and they’re just left with their broken pieces, shards of glass to be smoothed out by the rhythmic waves of the sea. They are the moon to each other’s ocean; pulling and pushing at one another’s tides. They keep each other going in a slow pattern, one of the reasons they choose to wake up the next morning.
Finally, Keefe lets out a loud sniffle and pulls back to wipe his eyes.
“Thank you.”
Sophie blinks. Once. Twice.
“‘Thank you?’ Keefe, I just made you cry.”
He shakes his head a few times. “No, that—it felt right. What’s that word you always say, the one that’s the good cry?”
Sophie’s taken aback, so it takes her a second to respond. “Catharsis. You crying felt… right?”
“That one. Yeah, it was cathartic. It felt good to let it out. The analogy made my feelings meaningful, somehow.”
Sophie hums noncommittally. “Mm, okay. Well,” She rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m still sorry I made you cry.”
“Don’t be, Foster. I feel a lot better. And, more importantly, now I know where to take you next.”
She lifts her head and looks up at him, his bravado back on, though his eyes shine with more vulnerability than usual.
Sophie raises an eyebrow. “Where?”
“A lavender field, duh. They’re so beautiful,” he says, and presses his lips against the crown of her forehead. “Almost as beautiful as you.”
Sophie smacks his shoulder as he pulls away. “You’re such a flirt.”
Keefe grins.
“That’s what you asked for, Foster. I’m not sure why you’re surprised.”
Sophie chuckles softly, shaking her head at Keefe’s playful banter. She leans in, her voice barely above a whisper, "I love you."
Keefe's grin softens into something genuine, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. For a moment, there are no more words needed—and in his loving embrace, she feels a comforting warmth spread through her body.
“I love you too.”
They’re growing a garden together, weeds and all.