#grounding touch

It begins subtly—static dancing along the tips of his gloved fingers, the faint hum of electricity vibrating through the air like a restless thought that refuses to settle. He looks up from the notes sprawled across his desk, his eyes narrowing.

“[Name],” he says, tone cutting through the haze like a precise blade. “You’re thinking too loudly again.”

You blink, startled from your trance. The lights in the study flicker once, twice, before settling into a dim, trembling glow.

“W–what?” you murmur, pressing a hand to your temple. You hadn’t realized how deep you’d fallen into your own mind again. It was supposed to be a momentary reflection—a harmless introspection—but the tightness in your chest betrays you. The room hums faintly with energy.

Ratio leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Your emotions. They’re leaking.”

You glance around, cheeks heating. Sparks crawl up the metal edges of the table, little arcs of blue-white light jumping like nervous thoughts. “Sorry, I—”

He cuts you off with a raised hand. “Don’t apologize for being human. Just… control it before you short-circuit the lamps again. These specimens are irreplaceable.”

There’s no venom in his tone—only dry amusement—but his gaze is sharp, analytical. He studies you the way he studies complex data sets: intently, but with a strange undercurrent of care.

You exhale shakily. “It’s not that easy. It just—happens.”

Ratio hums, rising from his seat. The motion is unhurried, yet deliberate—every step calculated, every glance purposeful. He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly. “Emotion is merely energy misdirected. You can’t suppress it, but you can reorient it.”

“I’m not exactly good at that,” you admit.

His lips curl into a knowing smile. “Fortunately for you, I am.”

He lifts a hand, resting it lightly atop your head. A low current ripples between your skin and his, harmless yet intimate. His voice drops to a murmur. “Focus on my voice. Nothing else. Not the past, not the thought loops—just the present equation.”

You breathe in. Out. Again.

“The human mind,” he continues softly, “is a machine that mistakes momentum for meaning. Once it starts spinning, it forgets it can stop.”

The charge in the air slowly dissipates. The static hum weakens. Your breath steadies.

When you finally look up, he’s watching you with an expression that’s almost gentle. “Better?”

You nod, unable to speak.

Ratio steps back, the faintest smirk returning to his lips. “Next time you lose control, remember—electricity follows a conductor. You simply needed grounding.”

You laugh quietly. “That’s your way of saying I need you, isn’t it?”

He feigns offense. “Please. I’d never make such an unscientific claim.”

But when the lights finally stop flickering and the air settles, he allows his hand to linger on your shoulder for a moment longer than necessary—his silent acknowledgment that, equations aside, he doesn’t mind being your grounding line.

It starts during a negotiation. You’re seated across from Aventurine in his private office, papers scattered between you like a deck mid-shuffle. He’s half-listening, half-performing his usual show: spinning a golden coin across his knuckles, flashing a grin that borders on smug.

Then he notices you’ve gone quiet.

Not just quiet—still. Too still.

The lights above flicker once, then twice, before dimming to a soft glow. Frost creeps across the windowpane, delicate and deliberate. Aventurine’s coin freezes mid-air, caught between his fingers.

“Well, that’s new,” he murmurs.

You’re staring down at the table, lost somewhere deep inside your head. You don’t even feel the temperature drop. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears—an echo of words, faces, fears. The air chills further.

He watches with mild fascination. “[Name]?”

No response. The ice begins to lace across the table’s edges. His grin falters slightly.

“Hey,” he says again, this time softer. He reaches across the table, fingertips brushing the frozen surface. Frost blooms around his touch, and he chuckles under his breath. “Now this… this is what I call atmosphere.”

Still nothing.

His tone shifts—less teasing, more deliberate. “You’re not here, are you?”

You flinch at the sound of his voice, like a sudden crack through glass.

“I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.” Aventurine stands, moving around the table until he’s behind you. His coat swishes softly, brushing your shoulder as he leans down. “You’re spiraling again.”

“I didn’t even realize,” you whisper. The air turns colder.

“I figured as much.” His hand hovers just above yours, careful not to startle you. “You freeze the whole room when you overthink. I can practically see the frost forming on your eyelashes.”

A shaky laugh escapes you. “Guess I’m not great company.”

“On the contrary,” he says smoothly, lowering himself to your level. “You make things… interesting. I’ve been bored out of my mind lately.”

You glance at him, eyes wide. “You’re joking.”

“Mostly.” He smirks, though his eyes are softer now—gentler than you’ve ever seen them. “Listen, sweetheart. You don’t have to apologize for feeling too much. Just don’t let it drown you. There’s no winning hand in that.”

He gestures to the table, where frost outlines the cards you’d been using earlier for analysis—clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades, all encased in a thin sheen of ice. “You’re the one holding all the cards, but you keep acting like the dealer’s against you.”

Your throat tightens. “Because sometimes it feels like it.”

“Then bluff better,” he says simply.

You blink, almost laughing through the tears threatening your lashes. “That’s your advice?”

“It’s my life philosophy.” He shrugs. “When the odds are impossible, I make them believe I’ve already won.”

He extends his hand. “C’mon. Take a risk. Let it go.”

You hesitate, then place your cold hand in his. He winces slightly—your skin is like ice—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he threads his fingers through yours and draws you close enough to share warmth.

Slowly, the frost melts. The air warms again, tension fading like the last note of a song.

Aventurine studies you in the quiet that follows, his tone dropping low. “You know… the game’s only fun because it’s unpredictable. But you? You’re the one thing I don’t mind losing control over.”

You look up at him, startled. “You’d risk that?”

He grins. “Darling, I risk everything.”

And when the last traces of frost fade from the room, he finally lets go—but only because he knows you’ve found your footing again.

The courtyard is quiet when it happens. The air hums faintly with the evening cicadas, and the gentle rustle of silk from Jing Yuan’s robes fills the space as he pours tea.

You sit nearby, staring into nothing, your mind spiraling down familiar, invisible corridors. He speaks to you once, twice, and you don’t respond. The teapot trembles slightly in his hand.

He senses it then—the subtle shift in qi, the unnatural chill curling around your ankles. Frost spreads across the stones beneath you.

“[Name],” he says softly.

You don’t hear him.

Snow begins to fall—not from the sky, but from the condensation in the air, crystallizing under the pull of your emotions. The General sets the teapot aside, his eyes glinting with quiet concern.

He moves toward you without haste, his presence deliberate, grounding. “You’ve wandered off again,” he murmurs.

Your breathing is uneven. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

He kneels before you, resting one hand on the frozen ground. A thin layer of ice covers the pebbles, reflecting the flicker of lantern light. “When you let your thoughts spiral,” he says, “the world answers in kind.”

You close your eyes. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my head gets too loud, and everything else follows.”

Jing Yuan hums, a sound deep and steady—like distant thunder. “Then we quiet it together.”

He places a hand over yours. His warmth seeps through your skin, steady and calm. “Do you feel that?”

You nod faintly.

“Good. Focus there.” His voice is low, patient. “Don’t fight the storm; let it pass through you.”

You take a deep breath, matching his rhythm. The temperature slowly rises. Ice melts into dew.

He waits until you meet his gaze, then smiles—soft and knowing. “You’ve always been strong, but strength isn’t about control. It’s about trust.”

“Trust?” you echo.

He chuckles quietly. “Trust that even if you falter, someone will be here to steady you.”

You stare at him, heart twisting at the sincerity in his tone. “You mean you?”

“I mean anyone worthy of your faith,” he says gently. Then, with a faint smirk: “Though I’d like to think I’m near the top of that list.”

The air warms with laughter, yours mixing with his. When the last trace of frost vanishes, the courtyard returns to its tranquil state.

Jing Yuan pours the tea again, handing you a cup with steady hands. “The mind can be a battlefield,” he says quietly. “But even generals rest between wars.”

You sip the tea, warmth blooming through your chest. “Thank you, Jing Yuan.”

He smiles faintly, eyes half-lidded with his characteristic serenity. “Anytime, my dear. Just try not to freeze my courtyard next time.”

You grin, setting the cup down beside his. “No promises.”

His laugh is soft, rich, and genuine—the kind that chases away the last of your lingering fears.

And as the stars appear above, you realize that in his quiet company, the storm in your mind has finally found its peace.