They were supposed to be resting.

  That was Francis’s decree—delivered with the same tone he used for prescriptions, like the universe would obey him out of habit.

  “Light training,” he’d said. “Mobility. Footwork. No heroic stunts.”

  Which, for Trey Lancaster, was basically a nightmare.

  The bruises faded. The pain went away. And one morning, Trey crossed the courtyard without anything supporting him but his own stubborn balance.

  Elkington Academy slid back into its routines as if the world hadn’t tried to swallow two of its students whole. Bells rang. Boots thudded down corridors. The training yards filled with the familiar music of steel and shouting.

  And Trey—annoyingly, disastrously alive—found himself watching Luna like she was a new sun the academy had accidentally installed.

  It wasn’t a decision.

  It was… a problem.

  Luna walked into the cafeteria with her forearms still braced in Francis’s immaculate splints, shoulders squared like she wasn’t wearing proof of her own recklessness.

  Her hair caught the light.

  It wasn’t loose like usual.

  Someone — Bridget, obviously — had taken pity on her cracked limbs and braided it for her, the plait swept back and around her head in a careful crown, pinned just tight enough to keep it out of the way. A few strands had escaped near her temples, softening the severity of it, but the rest framed her like she was wearing something ceremonial rather than practical.

  Like she hadn’t dressed for training.

  Like she’d stepped out of a story.

  Luna didn’t seem aware of it at all. She walked with the same blunt determination she always had. Chin up, eyes forward — utterly unconcerned with the fact that she looked dangerously unfair.

  Trey forgot how to breathe.

  He stared.

  Like an idiot.

  Like Blake Ashford.

  The memory hit him without warning.

  After that kiss with Abby, Blake had spent weeks walking around like a man who’d just won a private argument with the universe.

  Radiant. Floating.

  Smiling at walls. Smiling at air.

  Smiling at nothing.

  Everyone had been annoyed. Abby had wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

  Blake had existed as an ongoing public display of happiness.

  Trey had scoffed at him constantly back then.

  “That’s dumb,” he had said one afternoon, watching Blake grin at a doorframe like it had told him a joke. “No one should be that happy just because someone kissed them.”

  Francis, quietly brewing tea in the corner like a grumpy grandpa, hadn’t even looked up.

  “If you love someone,” he had said, clinical as always, “you’ll look exactly like that.”

  Trey had immediately leaned in, curiosity blazing.

  “Oooooh? Personal experience?”

  Francis had reached for his cup and had clearly not cared to answer.

  The subject, apparently, had been closed.

  Now, sitting beside Luna at the long cafeteria table, watching her adjust her bracing straps with her teeth because her hands were busy, Trey caught sight of the windowpane behind her.

  His own reflection stared back.

  Soft-eyed.

  Stupid.

  Warm.

  The exact same look he’d spent weeks mocking out of Blake.

  A complete puppy.

  Trey looked away sharply, jaw tightening.

  Dumbass.

  It didn’t stop there.

  One afternoon, Trey Lancaster did not make it to training on time.

  Though, this was not unusual.

  Detention had a way of finding him—especially in Ermin’s class, where he considered conversation a shared responsibility and Ermin considered it a disruption of the natural order.

  Luna arrived at the training yard first.

  She slowed as she stepped onto the packed earth, eyes instinctively scanning for a tall, loud presence that should have been there already.

  Nothing.

  She checked the benches.

  No Trey.

  No sword abandoned where it shouldn’t be.

  “Detention again,” she sighed, immediately annoyed on his behalf.

  After a moment’s consideration, she turned toward the spear racks. If he wasn’t coming, she might as well join—

  “Hold it.”

  Blake Ashford’s voice cut in, calm but firm.

  Luna paused. “What?”

  He nodded toward the spear. “Creek said light training only.”

  She lifted her braced forearms slightly. “My arms are fine. And Creek isn’t even here.”

  Blake followed her gesture toward the bench.

  Francis was, in fact, very much there.

  Not sitting.

  But moving.

  Badly, with visible determination.

  He was several paces away, attempting footwork drills with Abel, expression tight, jaw set like he was personally offended by his own lack of grace.

  Luna blinked. “…When did he start doing that?”

  Blake’s mouth twitched. “A while ago.”

  He gestured toward an empty stretch of yard. “Come on. I’ll train you.”

  She hesitated. “You do realize your idea of ‘training’ usually involves punching rocks and other hard surfaces.”

  Blake rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I know how to be gentle.”

  Luna squinted at him. “Do you?”

  “Ask Abby if you don’t believe me.”

  Luna looked around. “Right. Where is she, anyway?”

  Blake’s expression tightened. Just briefly. “Book club emergency. Something about library arrangement codes. I do not understand a word.”

  He straightened. “Ready?”

  They started slow.

  Footwork. Balance. Shifts of weight that didn’t strain her arms. Blake corrected her stance with words only—hands firmly to himself, despite the visible effort it took.

  By the time Trey was finally released, the sun had already begun its lazy descent, and the training yard was well and truly occupied.

  “Wow,” Trey’s voice rang out cheerfully. “I leave you alone for one detention and you replace me.”

  Luna turned.

  Blake rolled his eyes. Hard.

  Trey’s eyes flicked from Luna to Blake.

  Something unpleasant and unfamiliar curled in his chest.

  He opened his mouth to say something he’d regret— then his gaze caught on someone else stepping into the yard.

  His expression changed.

  Oh. This would do nicely.

  “Abby!” He called brightly. “Perfect timing. I’ll mentor you today.”

  Abby blinked. “Uh—okay? But keep it light. Your injuries—”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “DON’T WORRY,” Trey said loudly, projecting. “I’LL CARRY YOU IF YOU GET HURT.”

  Blake’s glare burned holes straight through Trey’s skull.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke, but the air between them snapped tight, like a bowstring pulled too far.

  They kept training.

  Trey tried not to watch Blake correct Luna’s stance.

  He failed.

  Blake stepped in closer than necessary, gesturing at her footing—

  —and lightly touched her arm.

  That was it.

  Trey’s gaze lifted slowly.

  His eyes’ locked with Blake’s.

  Sharp. Warning.

  Unmistakable.

  He tilted his head, only a fraction.

  Really, mate? You planning to keep Luna to yourself all afternoon?

  Blake’s eyes narrowed.

  Better than you treating Abby like part of the act. Back. Off.

  Trey’s smirk sharpened.

  Fine. Trade?

  Blake did not hesitate.

  Trade.

  Without another word, Trey lowered his guard and turned toward Luna with an exaggerated bow.

  “I suddenly feel inspired,” he announced, “to train with my number-one fan and personal savior.”

  Blake stepped past him, planting himself beside Abby like a silent wall.

  The swap was complete.

  Luna looked between them, suspicious. “Did you two just—”

  “Just what?” Trey said innocently. “Telepathic communication? Please. This isn’t a legend, Luna.”

  He shrugged lightly. “Now—where were we? Oh right. Me teaching you how not to stand like the sun itself.”

  Shit. What did I just say?

  Luna frowned. “…What does that even mean?”

  Trey grinned like that was entirely intentional.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll demonstrate.”

  She aimed her glare at him like a thrown knife.

  He grinned back like it was sunshine.

  And he… couldn’t stop.

  Every small thing she did hit him strangely now.

  The way she set her feet. The way she frowned when she concentrated.

  The way she listened—actually listened—even while insulting him.

  Even Trey himself didn't know exactly when it started.

  Not one moment. Not one thought.

  Just—day by day—the way he smiled at Luna stopped being occasional and started being constant.

  He noticed it.

  He just couldn’t help it.

  And it got worse.

  And then came the moment that broke whatever fragile balance he’d been pretending still existed.

  They were seated shoulder to shoulder on the practice mats in First Aid class, surrounded by half-listening students and the low murmur of instruction.

  Bandages. Splints. Emergency stabilization.

  Things Trey should have been paying attention to.

  Luna leaned forward, focused, forearms still braced as she demonstrated the wrap—

  on him.

  “And if the joint’s unstable,” Luna said calmly, precise as ever, “you anchor here first—”

  Her hands paused.

  “…Trey?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  Her eyes flicked to his forearm. There was a thin scrape along his skin, fresh enough to bead red.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He followed her gaze.

  “Oh,” he said. “Huh.”

  Before he could say anything else, Luna reached for him.

  “Hold still.”

  He did.

  Not because he agreed.

  But because his body forgot how to move.

  She took a bandage from the kit, pressed it over the scrape, then gave it a light pat, more habit than thought.

  “Here you go.”

  Her touch was light. Practical. Brief.

  And that was what ruined him.

  Everything stopped.

  Sound. Thought. Air.

  His heartbeat slammed so hard he was certain everyone could hear it.

  I have lived too long, he thought wildly. End me now.

  Luna finished the wrap and pulled back, already moving on.

  She didn’t notice his stillness at first.

  Then she did.

  She glanced back.

  Trey was frozen.

  Upright. Stiff. Eyes unfocused like his soul had stepped out for a walk.

  Her brow furrowed.

  “…Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too flat.

  She hesitated.

  Something flickered across her expression. Confusion first, then something quieter. Something she didn’t name.

  “Right,” she said, tone neutral again. “Good.”

  She stood and hauled the kit back to the cabinet.

  “Smooth.” Francis, sitting nearby, spoke without looking up.

  Trey’s head turned right toward him.

  “This is it,” Francis continued flatly. “Your downfall. I’m witnessing it.”

  Trey made a choking sound and leaned closer, and whispered.

  “Stop talking.”

  Francis patted his shoulder with exaggerated sympathy.

  “Pathetic.”

  “Yeah,” Trey sighed, “I know.”

  That night, Luna closed her room door with a soft click.

  The room was dim, lit by a single lantern on her desk. She tossed her cloak aside, dragged a hand through her hair, and stood still as if moving too fast might make something spill out.

  Her heartbeat was louder than it should’ve been.

  Annoying.

  “Why do I care?” she muttered flatly.

  She kicked her boots off. One hit the bedframe and wobbled. She scowled at it.

  “Trey being moody isn’t my problem.”

  She paced once across the room, then back.

  “Mira,” she said aloud, as if naming it might dull the edge. “He’s thinking about Mira. Of course he is. She was important.”

  Important enough to leave a shadow.

  The thought didn’t come from nowhere.

  She remembered the way his humor had vanished back then—how one death had cracked something open in him.

  How grief always dragged Mira to the surface when the ground gave way beneath him.

  And this time, it hadn’t just been someone else.

  This time, it had almost been them.

  The two of them.

  One fall and the world nearly took everything.

  Of course his mind would go there.

  That was how Trey worked. He carried his ghosts quietly, until something shook them loose.

  She swallowed.

  It made sense.

  Which was why it hurt.

  “…So why does that bother me?”

  She sat heavily on the bed, hugging a pillow without realizing she’d done it.

  Her throat felt… wrong. Tight in a way she didn’t have a word for.

  “I’m not jealous,” she muttered. “That’s stupid.”

  The silence didn’t argue.

  “He’s just a friend,” she said, voice muffled. “A loud, overly-helpful friend with terrible hair.”

  Her mind replayed the way he’d looked at her earlier.

  Soft.

  Unguarded.

  Like she was something warm.

  Like she was important too.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. I refuse.”

  She flopped backward onto the bed and threw the pillow over her face like it could smother thoughts.

  “I do not care,” she declared, furious.

  She cared.

  And that was the problem.

  This had been going on for a while.

  Their injuries had healed. The splints were gone. Training had returned to normal.

  But something else hadn’t.

  Trey still didn’t touch her.

  Not by accident. Not in correction. Not even when proximity demanded it.

  Every time his hand came too close, he froze—or pulled away like contact itself had become dangerous.

  At first, Luna told herself she was imagining it.

  Then she stopped pretending.

  Whatever had shifted between them after the cliff hadn’t settled with the bones.

  It lingered.

  So when Luna went looking for him that evening, she knew exactly where he’d be.

  The backyard.

  Trey sat there against the rock hills—Blake’s favorite spot—face turned up to the sky, eyes unfocused, like he wasn’t really seeing it.

  The sight made something inLuna’s chest tighten.

  She approached silently and sat beside him—not close, not far.

  He didn’t look at her.

  She didn’t look at him either.

  “You’ve been out of it lately,” she said casually, like she wasn’t threading her way through glass.

  “Spacing out at meals. Staring at nothing. Dropping your guard during training.”

  She glanced at him. “That’s not like you.”

  “I’m fine,” he said too quickly.

  “You’re not.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  He opened his mouth.

  Closed it again.

  Luna exhaled slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier—careful.

  “…You’ve been thinking about Mira again, haven’t you?”

  His head snapped toward her.

  She didn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, expression unreadable.

  “She mattered to you,” she continued. “I’d get it.”

  The words weren’t accusing.

  They were gentle.

  And that somehow made it worse.

  Trey stared at her—stunned, aching, desperate to correct her.

  To say it.

  To say no.

  To say it’s not her.

  But his throat locked.

  And in the silence that followed, Luna nodded slowly, as if she’d heard an answer anyway.

  Something flickered in her eyes—hurt that was quickly buried.

  “Right,” she said briskly, standing.

  She reached out—then stopped.

  Her hand hovered near his shoulder for half a second before pulling back, fingers curling into herself instead.

  “Get some rest.”

  Her mask slid back into place.

  “I hate to see you mope.”

  She walked away.

  Trey didn’t follow.

  Didn’t speak.

  And Luna didn’t look back.

  He stayed where she’d left him, back against cold stone, blade resting uselessly at his side.

  The backyard felt emptier now. Even the stars seemed farther away.

  For a long while, he didn’t move.

  His heart kept beating too hard. Too loud. Like it wanted to chase her down the path she’d taken.

  But he stayed still.

  I can’t tell her.

  The thought landed heavy and final.

  I can’t.

  He dragged both hands down his face, breath uneven.

  Why am I feeling this?

  She was just Luna.

  She was—

  He almost laughed.

  She was everything.

  His throat tightened.

  If I tell her… and she runs—

  The image twisted painfully in his chest. Luna avoiding him. Luna stepping away. Luna not looking at him the way she always had—open, blunt, close.

  I don’t want her to run.

  He exhaled, shaky.

  I want her to stay.

  Even if she never knew.

  Even if she never said anything back.

  Even if he had to sit beside her forever and never touch her again.

  He’d take that.

  He would.

  Then another thought crept in—small, desperate, humiliating.

  What if she doesn’t feel the same?

  Trey Lancaster wasn’t used to uncertainty. He wasn’t used to losing.

  But this wasn’t a fight.

  It was worse.

  It was hope.