Not easy. Not clean. Not magically redeemed into some inspiring poster about growth and communication. My shoulder still aches where the sweep arm clipped me in yesterday’s challenge, and the back of my neck is tight from sleeping badly on one pillow and half my conscience. But when I open my eyes in Tilda’s room and see her still asleep on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek, hair loose over the pillow in soft untidystrands, my first thought is not about cameras or rankings or money or how the moment might play to an audience.
My first thought is that I would like to deserve this.
That’s new enough to be almost frightening.
The room smells faintly of warm skin, the clean cotton of the sheets, and the citrus soap from the compound shower system. Beyond the window panel, the outer edge of dawn is beginning to wash a pale gray-blue over the training grounds. The compound’s distant machinery hums in slow mechanical rhythms, vents whispering through the walls, lifts moving somewhere down the corridor, a muted clank now and then from an early maintenance crew beginning its rounds. Tilda stirs when I shift, blinking once before she focuses on me.
“Well,” she says, voice husky with sleep, “you’re staring.”
“Yeah,” I admit.
“That’s unsettling.”
“I’m having a reflective moment.”
“That’s even more unsettling.”
I smile and prop myself up on one elbow. “Morning to you too, sweetheart.”
Her mouth curves a little despite herself, then flattens as she notices the hour ticking across the wall display. “We have rankings in forty minutes.”
“Romance really thrives under this level of institutional pressure.”
“That’s not romance. That’s scheduling.”
“Terrible distinction.”
She rolls onto her back and covers her face briefly with one hand, which does very unhelpful things to my ability to remain a serious person. “You’re smug.”
“No,” I say. “I’m emotionally centered.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Historically, yes. But I’m branching out.”
She drops her hand and studies me for a beat, her expression somewhere between fondness and suspicion. It occurs to me then with odd force that she is looking at me the way people look at things they want to trust but still expect might explode. Fair enough. If I were Tilda, I’d keep the fire extinguisher nearby too.
I sit up slowly, stretching until my shoulder protests. She notices instantly.
“You’re sore.”
“Just enough to be dramatic about it.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine.”
“Bron.”
There are entire military units less effective than Tilda saying my name in that tone. I turn and let her inspect the shoulder. Her fingers brush the singed edge of healing skin with practical gentleness, and the room goes still around that touch. She frowns.
“You need another med gel patch before training.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She leans back, suspicious of my compliance. “You agreed too quickly.”
“That’s growth.”
