What’s this, therapy?

The Haven hummed with quiet as dawn crept through the cracks in the boarded windows. Kael pushed open the door to Rhea's room, the faint squeak of hinges cutting through the stillness. He stepped in, casual—dark tee clinging to his lean frame, a coin flipping between his fingers. At 24, he carried a cocky edge, but his hazel eyes were sharp, dissecting her with every glance.

Rhea slumped on the cot, her wild crimson hair a tangled mess streaked with ash. The blue blanket lay crumpled at her feet, her charred leather jacket creased from a restless night. She glared up at him, amber eyes smoldering. "What's this, therapy?" she spat, voice rough with sleep and defiance.

Kael smirked, pulling a chair over—not too close, keeping a professional line for now. "Something like that," he said, settling in, the coin still dancing in his hand. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, studying her—clenched fists, scars flexing along her arms as she shifted. "Morning, Rhea. Sleep okay?"

"Fuck off," she snapped, sitting up straighter, her wiry frame coiled tight. "You lock me in here, and now it's chat time? What's your game, asshole?"

"No game," he said, voice low, steady—real rehab vibes, calm but unyielding. "Just questions. What set you off? Why the fire?"

She barked a laugh, bitter and sharp. "None of your damn business. You think I'll spill my guts 'cause you've got a chair and a smug face?"

Kael didn't flinch, didn't push. He let her words hang, the coin pausing mid-flip as he watched her. The collar around her neck gleamed dull, locking her pyrokinesis away—leaving just her raw emotions in play, simmering beneath the surface. "Fair enough," he said finally. "You don't have to talk yet. But you're here to figure out why you burn. I'm here to help."

"Help?" Her amber eyes narrowed, a sneer curling her lips. "You're a joke. That bitch Liss dumps me here, and you think you can fix me? I'd torch this place if I could."

"I know," he said, unfazed, leaning back. "But you can't. Not with that collar. So we're stuck with each other—for now." His tone stayed even, patient, like he was peeling back layers without force. He saw it—the way her scars twitched when she moved, the fury etched into every line of her body.

She laughed again, colder this time, but a flicker crossed her face—curiosity, maybe, buried deep. "You're wasting your time, hero boy."

"Maybe," he said, standing, the coin spinning once more. "Think about why you're really mad, Rhea. We'll talk tomorrow." He left her with that, the door clicking shut behind him. She scowled after him, fists tightening on the cot, but his words stuck—niggling, unwanted, like ash caught in her throat.

The next morning, Kael returned, same chair, same steady gait—but closer this time, narrowing the gap. Rhea sat upright now, less hostile, though her arms stayed crossed over her jacket, guarding herself. Boredom had worn her edges down overnight, the room's gray walls and stale air dulling her fire. She eyed the tray he carried—water, a notepad, a pen—as he set it on the cot beside her.

"Day two," he said, settling in, the coin tucked away now. "Let's try something." His hazel eyes met hers, calm but piercing. "Describe the fire. Not why—just what it felt like."

Rhea's brow furrowed, suspicion flaring. "What's that supposed to do?"

"Humor me," he said, voice a quiet anchor. "Close your eyes if it helps."

She hesitated, amber eyes locked on his, searching for a trap. Then, grudgingly, she let her lids drop, her scarred hands resting on her knees. "Hot," she muttered, voice tight. "Alive. Mine." The words came slow, like she was dragging them up from somewhere deep.

Kael nodded, leaning forward slightly. "Good. Keep going. Feel it again—the heat, the way it moved." He guided her, steady, deliberate—standard therapy stuff, grounding her in the memory. Her breathing shifted, deeper, slower, her shoulders easing as she sank into it.

"Like… rushing," she said, quieter now, almost reluctant. "Through my hands, my chest. It wanted out."

He watched her, noting the way her scars prickled faintly, the tension in her jaw softening. Then he made his move—slowly, telegraphing it so she wouldn't bolt. His fingers brushed her wrist, just below the collar, light but firm. "Focus," he said, and his Empathic Resonance kicked in.

He didn't feel a thing—no heat, no rush, just the cool precision of his power flowing outward. For Rhea, though, it was different. He amplified the memory of heat—not pain, not pleasure, just intensity. Her skin warmed under his touch, a flush creeping up her arm. The sensation swelled—her scars tingled, her pulse quickened, the fire's echo roaring louder in her mind's eye. She gasped, eyes snapping open, yanking her wrist back.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded, voice sharp but unsteady. Her amber eyes locked on his, wide, confused—intrigued, despite herself.

Kael pulled back, smirking faintly. "You tell me. What'd you feel?"

She rubbed her wrist, scars flexing under her fingers. "It… it was stronger. Like the fire was there again, but—" She cut off, frowning, her breath still uneven. "You did that."

"Yeah," he said, leaning back, hands in his pockets now. "That's the trick. I amplify what's in you—sensations, feelings. No fire, thanks to the collar, but I can make you feel it anyway. Helps us dig into why you lean on it so hard."

Rhea stared at him, her guard up but wavering. "So you're gonna mess with my head? That's your big rehab plan?"

"Not mess," he corrected, voice firm but gentle. "Understand. You burn because it's yours—your power, your outlet. But it's not all you are. We're figuring out the rest." He stood, the chair scraping faintly. "You felt that. Tomorrow, we go deeper."

She didn't reply, just watched him, amber eyes tracking his every move. Her fingers lingered on her wrist, tracing where he'd touched her. The heat was gone, but the memory of it—of him—stuck, a ripple she couldn't shake. He spun the coin once more as he headed for the door, leaving her in silence.

Back in the main room, Kael exhaled, tossing the coin onto his desk. Rhea—Flame-Warden—was a live wire, all rage and sharp edges, but he'd cracked the surface. Day one, he'd planted a seed—why are you mad?—and watched her stew on it. Day two, he'd stoked her fire, not to provoke, but to ground her in it, show her he could handle it without flinching.

His power was the key—cold for him, a tool he wielded without feeling its bite. For her, it was a mirror, reflecting her own heat back, amplified. She'd felt it, reacted, and that was the hook. He wasn't forcing her to change—not yet. He was showing her the violence wasn't her only piece, nudging her to question it.

Rhea stayed on the cot, legs crossed now, staring at the tray. She grabbed the water, gulping it down, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth he'd stirred. Her mind churned—Hot. Alive. Mine. Then his voice: Why you burn. She scowled, tossing the empty cup aside, but the question clung, stubborn.

She wasn't broken—not even close. The fire was still hers, locked under that collar, and she'd torch him if she could. But he hadn't pushed, hadn't fought back. Just sat there, steady, peeling at her like she was some puzzle he could solve. And that touch—goddamn it, that touch. It wasn't fear, wasn't pain, just… more. Her scars itched, her pulse still thrummed faintly.

Kael wanted to change her, she saw that—really change her, not just cage her. The violence, the burning, the chaos—she'd built her life on it, fed it with every spark. Now he was poking at it, calm as hell, like he could unravel it without getting burned. She hated him for it. Hated the curiosity creeping in.

The room settled into quiet, the bulb's buzz the only sound. Rhea lay back, arms behind her head, amber eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her wrist tingled where he'd been, and she rubbed it again, scowling. Tomorrow, he'd said. Deeper. She didn't know what that meant, but for the first time in years, she wondered what she'd say.

Outside, Kael leaned against the desk, the coin still in his palm. Rhea was a flame—wild, dangerous, but not untouchable. He'd started the slow burn of changing her, one crack at a time.