I’m still on my back on the mat, but I lift my chin toward Noa. “She thinks you’re too much of a rule follower.”
Rozsen gasps in mock offense. “Celeste, you weren’t supposed to tell him that.”
Noa’s gaze cuts to them. “If you two are done with the side comments, spar or leave.”
Then his expression shutters into professionalism so perfect it makes me want to throw something.
He offers me a hand up.
Killjoy.
I take it anyway, because his grip is warm and steady and it pulls me upright like I weigh nothing. For a heartbeat his thumb brushes my palm—too brief to call intentional.
But it is.
I notice the keycard Rozsen is twirling between two fingers. Finn follows behind her with the expression of a man who has suffered deeply.
I glance at them. “How many is that now?”
Finn holds up a hand like he’s tallying his own misery. “Five to one.”
Rozsen beams like she’s won an Olympic medal.
Noa’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. He nods toward the far mat. “You two spar. Keep it clean.”
Finn snorts. “Clean? With her?”
Rozsen tosses him the stolen card like she’s being generous. He fumbles it, muttering, and follows her toward the mat.
The bickering starts immediately—sarcasm snapping back and forth, familiar as breathing. Despite how those two started off the school year, they’ve never again spent the night together and instead developed an inseparable friendship based on sarcasm, wit, and how many times they can successfully steal each other’s keycards without the other noticing.
It’s infuriatingly adorable.
I bring my attention back to Noa—only to find him already watching me. Not my stance. My face.
I hear Finn yelp a second later as Rozsen flips him, his back to the mat, quick and clean.
I bite back a grin. Noa doesn’t.
“Focus,” he says.
“I am,” I lie.
For the next fifteen minutes, the room fills with the sounds of training: feet slapping mats, controlled impacts, Finn’s complaints, Rozsen’s laughter. Noa keeps me moving, correcting, pushing, keeping me from drifting into my head the way I always do when stress builds.
And it does build.
Essays. Exams. The constant pressure of Whittaker humming under my skin like a second heartbeat.
My mind keeps trying to split itself in two—half on what’s in front of me, half on an upcoming Potions exam and bullet points for my political negotiations essay. I spent years trailing behind my father on diplomatic missions; I know the games, but that doesn’t mean I can regurgitate them in academic format.
On the fourth round, his palm hits my shoulder harder than before, and I stumble.
“That’s the third opening in a row,” he says, irritation cutting through his usual calm. “You’re not committing to your advances.”
“I’m distracted,” I admit, breathless. “Midterms.”
Rozsen pauses from across the room, raising a brow. “Your… advances?”
