Mika knew Fauna was different.
Different from Yelena, different from Nadia, and different from any of the others who had shaped his life.
Like when he did something reckless, Yelena would always demand an explanation.
No matter what the situation was, she'd fix him with those sharp, commanding eyes of hers and expect him to tell her why—why he acted that way, what drove him, what he thought he could achieve.
She'd still forgive him in the end, she always did—but only after she'd heard his reasoning. It was her way of grounding him, of making him think before he leapt.
Nadia, however, was a complete contrast.
She would never question him outright. She wouldn't even raise an eyebrow or give the smallest hint of judgment.
She simply trusted him.
But Mika always knew that somewhere deep down, she expected him to come to her eventually—to explain himself, to share what had happened, to show that he respected the quiet bond between them.
