No one moves.
The tension is a physical thing—thick enough to choke on, heavy enough to press down on everyone present.
Then Jett looks at me.
Reallylooks.
Those storm-grey eyes scanning my face, my posture, cataloguing details the way I catalogue everything else.
"Are you okay?"
His voice is quiet.
Controlled.
Nothing like the raw fury in Blaze's tone. This is something else—concern, maybe, buried beneath layers of detachment and precision.
I blink.
"Yes."
The word comes out steadier than I expected.
"I shouldn't have zoned out," I add, because honesty is my default when I'm caught off guard. "But this isn't a kill zone. I didn't think?—"
"It's not," he agrees, cutting me off. "It's not a kill zone. You shouldn't have to be on guard against volleyballs."
The dry observation makes something in my chest flutter.
He understands.
He gets it.
The constant vigilance. The exhaustion of treating every space like a battlefield. The particular kind of tired that comes from never being able to relax, never being able to trust that you're safe.
He reaches out.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Giving me time to flinch away, to retreat, to reject the contact if I want to.
I don't move.
His fingers find a strand of hair that's escaped my ponytail—one of those rebellious pieces that refuses to stay contained no matter what I do. He tucks it behind my ear with surprising gentleness, the gesture so tender it makes my breath catch.
"You weren't in the slightest bit afraid."
It's not a question.
A statement of fact, delivered with the certainty of someone who's used to reading people.
"Why do you think that?" I ask, finding my voice.
"Because I'm used to smelling fear." His fingers linger at my temple, tracing the curve of my ear before falling away. "You didn't smell like it at all. Not even a trace."
The observation settles into my chest.
