08-25-2025, 01:27 AM
Jensen’s breath caught when Rachel’s trembling fingers slipped into his palm. Her skin was damp with tears, her grip small but desperate, like she clung to the possibility of freedom itself.
His chest tightened. He had laid hands on the burned, the broken, the bleeding. He had mended shattered bones, drawn sickness from lungs until they cleared like blue skies after rain. But this was different. There was no bruise to chase away, no fever to lower. This was a wound carved in her spirit, etched deep where no hand could reach.
For a flicker of a moment, fear touched him. What if it didn’t work? What if he reached for her, poured every ounce of himself into her, and found nothing to mend? What if he failed her?
But he couldn’t let that fear show. Not here. Not in front of this fragile woman who had just placed every shred of trust she had left into his keeping. So he closed his eyes, and he called the Gift.
It came like sunfire, like the tide, like the heavens itself filling him, surrounding him, carrying him. It was always more than he was, yet in these moments it felt as though he had been made for no other purpose than this: to channel it, to shape it, to give it. His whole body tensed as it poured through him, down his arm, into the trembling bridge of her hand.
He didn’t try to direct it, not like he usually did. Instead, he followed it, let it find its own way. And it did. It pressed inward, bypassing her body, bypassing the physical entirely, until it reached some unseen hollow in her mind. A place that was all jagged edges and darkness, a place where the fear had made its home. The Gift yearned to pour itself there.
Jensen’s heart ached. It was not his to understand, only his to obey. He let it flow. He willed it to flow. All of his being bent on one prayer: Let this work. Let her find peace. Please, God, let this work.
The moments stretched, and then, gently, he exhaled and opened his eyes.
Rachel’s hand was still in his, her grip trembling but sure. Slowly, reverently, Jensen eased his fingers free, releasing her so he could see her face. His pulse pounded in his ears, but outwardly he remained calm, composed, and waiting. Watching for the smallest flicker of change in her eyes, the faintest sign that the Gift had found purchase.
His chest tightened. He had laid hands on the burned, the broken, the bleeding. He had mended shattered bones, drawn sickness from lungs until they cleared like blue skies after rain. But this was different. There was no bruise to chase away, no fever to lower. This was a wound carved in her spirit, etched deep where no hand could reach.
For a flicker of a moment, fear touched him. What if it didn’t work? What if he reached for her, poured every ounce of himself into her, and found nothing to mend? What if he failed her?
But he couldn’t let that fear show. Not here. Not in front of this fragile woman who had just placed every shred of trust she had left into his keeping. So he closed his eyes, and he called the Gift.
It came like sunfire, like the tide, like the heavens itself filling him, surrounding him, carrying him. It was always more than he was, yet in these moments it felt as though he had been made for no other purpose than this: to channel it, to shape it, to give it. His whole body tensed as it poured through him, down his arm, into the trembling bridge of her hand.
He didn’t try to direct it, not like he usually did. Instead, he followed it, let it find its own way. And it did. It pressed inward, bypassing her body, bypassing the physical entirely, until it reached some unseen hollow in her mind. A place that was all jagged edges and darkness, a place where the fear had made its home. The Gift yearned to pour itself there.
Jensen’s heart ached. It was not his to understand, only his to obey. He let it flow. He willed it to flow. All of his being bent on one prayer: Let this work. Let her find peace. Please, God, let this work.
The moments stretched, and then, gently, he exhaled and opened his eyes.
Rachel’s hand was still in his, her grip trembling but sure. Slowly, reverently, Jensen eased his fingers free, releasing her so he could see her face. His pulse pounded in his ears, but outwardly he remained calm, composed, and waiting. Watching for the smallest flicker of change in her eyes, the faintest sign that the Gift had found purchase.