Tarrin's instincts screamed at him to turn around. To walk away. To forget he ever saw her.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
'Why are they the same damn color?'The thought crept in, slow and suffocating. That bright, brilliant golden—too familiar. Too close to a memory that should've stayed buried.
He'd been with dozens of women. Chasing warmth, chasing distraction. Anything to numb the void she left behind.
But none of them ever pulled him back like this. None of them made his chest tighten just from a glance.
So why the hell did this stranger—this girl with frost in her stare—make something stir?
'Just because they're the same color? That's it? It had to be more than that. It had to be.'
Still, he approached, plastering on that signature grin. Easygoing. Playful. Like his chest wasn't twisting with every step.
"Hey, Celith. What're you doing out here at this hour?" he asked, casual as ever.
She didn't respond right away. Just stared at him like he was something she couldn't quite place—like a smudge on a mirror.
Then she finally spoke. Her voice was cool, clipped, and so steady it made his grin falter.
"Training."
Tarrin smiled, already expecting her answer.
"At this hour? Do you ever sleep?" he asked with a light chuckle—but it died too quickly, like even his humor didn't believe itself.
She didn't reply. Just stared at him, eyes unreadable, a flicker of confusion dancing behind that ice-cold façade.
"Sorry if I messed up your training," he said, forcing a casual shrug. "Just thought I'd swing by and say hi."
Bloody bane, he winced internally. What the hell am I even saying?
He could feel the awkwardness cling to him like static, but he pushed through. He always did.
"Hey, uh… you want to grab an apple juice from the nearest vending machine? My treat."It sounded ridiculous the moment it left his mouth.
Still, he patted the thin pockets of his hospital gown—and jackpot. His wallet thumped against his side. The gods are watching after me tonight.
She looked at him again, that same detached stare. He braced himself for the rejection. But then, maybe—just maybe—the word apple juice triggered something. Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, focus sharpening.
Then she nodded.
Bloody hell, he thought. Always pay attention to the details. He'd noticed in the cafeteria. That juice she drank like it meant something.
Still, as they began to walk, he couldn't shake the creeping panic crawling up his spine.What am I even going to talk about?
He pushed the thought down and plastered the smile back on his face.
"So, Celith," he said, glancing at her sidelong,
"how do you like camp so far? If it treated you half as nicely as me—" he gestured to his hospital gown, "—I'm sure you're having the time of your life."
He let out a laugh. This one was real. Dry, tired, but real.
She stared a moment too long. Then, finally, said, "It's okay. Nobody talks to me. Except you."
Her voice was soft, colder than the wind biting through the night—but something beneath it shifted, like a crack in the surface of still water.
"How long have you been here?" Tarrin asked, voice a touch strained. "I mean, I'm guessing it's been longer than my very exciting one day."
He immediately cringed inwardly.
'What am I right now? Fourteen? Can't hold a conversation with one socially awkward girl?'
"A week before the last deployment," she said, same cool tone—but maybe, just maybe, a fraction less guarded than before.
"Oh, so you must know your way around, then," he said with a weak grin. "Guess I know who to bug for directions."
It landed like a feather on stone. Flat. Dead. No reaction.
'Is she a bloody wall? Or just too busy mourning a dozen dead puppies to smile?'
Then, without warning, her tone shifted—serious, direct. "Why are you out here in a hospital gown?"
Tarrin actually laughed. Not at her words, but the absurd contrast of her delivery. Stone-faced, ice-voiced, and asking the most practical question of the night.
"Ah, well," he said, lifting his arms as if to show off his ridiculous attire.
"Felix the Brat decided to chuck a knife at me. Real original. Thing still had soup on it too. So now I've got cafeteria mystery goop in my bloodstream. Lovely."
He caught himself rambling, cleared his throat. But when he looked at her, she was… listening. Or at least, not actively ignoring him. That was progress.
"The healer patched me up, mostly," he went on. "Said there's something with my collarbone—couldn't fix it in a day. Even with all their shiny Union-grade miracle juice."
His voice dipped then, the humor fading.
"Anyway… couldn't sleep. They're stingy with the painkillers. Shoulder felt like it was being chewed by a feral gremlin. So I wandered out. Totally random, I swear. Wasn't following you or anything weird."
He scratched the back of his head, eyes flicking away.
'Bloody hell. What the actual fuck is wrong with me today?'
Then—she laughed. Or something like it.
To Tarrin, it sounded like someone choking on dry ice.
"What are you laughing at?" he said, mock-offended, eyes catching hers for a beat too long.
'There it is again. That damn feeling.' A spark he didn't understand. Didn't want to understand.
She tilted her head slightly. "Why did you approach me?"
There it was. The shift. She was tuning in now, inching toward the conversation like someone testing the water with their toes.
"Why?" Tarrin echoed, buying a moment. "I don't know. I guess I was feeling kind of... lonely. Figured I'd say hi. Catch up, maybe. Is that weird? Just talking. No motives, no strings?"
Then he paused, realizing who he was talking to. Celith.
"Well… I guess for you it might be."
The silence that followed was a shade too long. Not quite hostile—just awkward. Heavy.
"You always look like you're carrying the world," he said, voice softening.
"Sitting alone, brooding like some tragic side character. I mean, there's got to be more to life than that, right?"
He wasn't sure why he was saying any of this. But it felt right.
"You've got your reasons, sure," he went on. "But talking today wasn't that bad, was it? Maybe we could... I don't know. Make it a routine?"
He looked at her then, watching for the slightest twitch in her expression.
Nothing.
But behind those cold eyes, something flickered. A tremor, barely there.
"A date?" she asked, voice low. Doubtful.
Tarrin smirked, raising a brow. "Do you want it to be?"
"No." Her eyes flicked to his collarbone, then away. "But I'll take the juice."
Tarrin barked a laugh. "Fair enough."
They reached the vending machine under the hum of flickering lights. Tarrin punched in a few buttons and retrieved two apple juices, cracking one open with a dramatic sigh.
"Never actually had one," he said, handing the other to her. "Always been more of a beer guy, to be honest."
Celith turned, brows knit. "Aren't you like... sixteen?"
Tarrin put on his most solemn face. "Ah, to be that young again. I'm twenty-three, actually. Got a kid back home. Single father, rough life."
She stared, unreadable, like she was debating whether to laugh or call the MPs.
After a long beat, he burst into a grin. "I'm kidding. Seventeen. No kid. But this one time—"
He cut himself off with a shrug, sipping his juice like it was vintage wine.
By the time they wandered back to the training grounds, both their drinks were half-finished, cartons dangling lazily from their fingers.
"So," Tarrin said, eyes flicking to the open space ahead, "you wanna spar?"
She looked him up and down, gaze lingering on the sling and the obvious stiffness in his shoulder. "I don't think you're in the condition for that."
"Come on," he said, grinning. "One round. You can flatten me for all I care—I just want to know how far behind the elite I really am."
She didn't answer right away. Something in her expression twitched. Then, in that same cool tone, barely above the wind: "You're still injured. It could get worse."
There was something buried in that voice. Still cold. But not indifferent. Not entirely.
Tarrin slipped his arm out of the sling, forcing a smile through the bolt of pain that flared instantly. He rolled his shoulder—well, tried to. It stopped halfway, stiff and screaming.
Celith noticed. Of course she did.
"What?" he said, puffing out his chest, hopping in place like a boxer. "You think a little scratch can stop me? Just because you're supposedly the strongest recruit around? Don't get cocky."
She raised a brow, unfazed. "If you feel pain, we stop. No argument." Her voice carried an edge of steel now, sharper than before.
'Yeah, well, I'm always in pain,' Tarrin thought, shoulder throbbing like a drumbeat under his skin.
"Alright, let's do this," he said, and lunged.
'Very proud feminist, support Isabella Taylor and all that. Especially if the girl can punch a hole through me.' He told himself.
The moment his feet left the ground, the pain dulled, eclipsed by the thrill of combat. He led with the right—his only real option—and she read it like a book, slipping back effortlessly.
Then she snapped forward, fist flying toward his good side. He caught it on his guard, but the impact still numbed his entire arm. He stumbled. Bad move.
She didn't hesitate—came in with a tight right hook. He jerked back just in time, barely dodging it, leg swinging into a rising kick—
But she was already there. She caught his ankle mid-air, twisted, and shoved. He stumbled, and before he could recover, her foot slammed into his knee.
Pain shot up his leg like lightning, but he gritted his teeth and powered through, forcing his body up with help from his injured arm. It nearly gave out, but he stayed on his feet.
Celith didn't wait. She surged in again, swift and silent, the space between them disappearing like smoke.
This was her world—where instinct reigned and hesitation meant defeat.
She feinted low, and Tarrin reacted on pure reflex, dodging to the side. His foot planted, and he twisted into a roundhouse, aiming high.
She flipped. A handstand turned into a backward arc, boots slicing through the air as she landed smoothly, putting distance between them.
"Show-off," Tarrin muttered, breathless.
Her mouth twitched—almost a grin.
He locked eyes with her, then flicked his gaze to the ground between them. A grin crawled up his face. "Come on," he snarled, baiting her—but he didn't move. Just waited.
She hesitated. "Are you sure you're okay? If you're—"
"I said get on with it. I'm fine," he cut in, voice sharp.
His shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat, pain pounding behind his grin. But he held his stance. Held the moment.
Celith nodded, then launched.
Tarrin didn't flinch. He stayed put, gauging the distance, timing her stride.
As she closed in, he slid his foot forward just enough to nudge a rock into her path.
It worked. She stepped straight onto it.
Her footing faltered—she tripped, momentum carrying her forward, body twisting mid-air.
Tarrin smirked, ready to claim his first win—
—but blinked, and she vanished.
The next thing he knew, his back slammed the dirt. She stood over him, emotionless, arms at her sides, not even winded.
'What the fuck just happened?'
Tarrin groaned and pushed himself up, clutching his shoulder. He hoped she noticed—sympathy points might count for something.
"Good spar," he said, breathless. "If we can call it that." He tried to laugh it off—then winced, agony shooting down his arm like lightning.
She stepped forward, then stopped herself. "You hurt yourself," she said flatly.
"Yeah, because of you." He shot her a grin despite the pain. "So how about you pay me back? Talk to me tomorrow. Deal?"
She stared, unreadable, like she was deciding if his charm was brave or just pathetic.
Then her hand curled into a fist. A flicker of something passed through her eyes.
"…Okay," she said, like it cost her something to say it.
"Six sharp," Tarrin said with a salute, already turning away. But then he paused. A thought struck.
"Hey… by any chance, you got any dogs? Or puppies? Back home?"
"I used to," she replied. "She died."
Her voice didn't shift, but her eyes dropped—just a fraction. Enough.
"Sorry to hear that. Good night, Celith."
He turned, limping slightly, steps quiet in the dark. But behind him, just as he crossed the edge of the training grounds, he heard it—soft, nearly lost to the wind.
"…Good night."
He smiled, the ache in his shoulder fading just a little.
'So it was a dead puppy after all.'