---
"Yes," Orna said, and her eyes flicked to his hand. "Because if that skill pulls people like that, you will cause trouble without even trying."
"I do not want trouble," John said.
Orna's mouth curved, not quite a smile, more the shape of a decision waiting to be tested. "Then learn fast."
He nodded and tried again, smaller this time. He aimed at a loose washer on the bench, intending only to pull that, to prove to himself that precision was still possible.
The washer slid.
So did the air.
So did Orna—just a fraction, like a compass needle remembering north.
Her breath hitched again, and this time she did not bother to hide it. The sound lingered between them, soft and undeniable.
John cut the pull instantly. "This is impossible," he muttered. "It is not listening."
Orna's voice dropped, steadier than she probably felt. "Maybe it is listening too well."
