The balance beam came next. I crossed it like a gymnast, steps quick and precise, weight centered. Behind me, I heard James's heavier footfalls, felt the beam shudder. He made it.
Cargo net. Low crawl. Sprint.
We finished with the second-best time of the morning, and I'd been holding back.
Reeves's eyes found me as I caught my breath, and something flickered there—recognition, maybe. Assessment, definitely.
"Orlav," she said. "Where'd you train?"
"Nothing formal." True enough. "I believe in being prepared."
She nodded slowly, not quite satisfied but not pushing. "Pair drills next. Situational awareness exercise."
The drill was simple: one partner blindfolded, the other guiding them through an obstacle path using only verbal commands. Then switch. It tested trust as much as awareness.
James tied my blindfold, his fingers brushing the back of my neck. My blood was pumping and having him so close I could smell him and feel his heat. It was messing with me, my nipples pebbled.
"Left two steps," he said. His deep voice was steady, calm. "Stop. Reach forward—there's a bar at chest height. Duck under."
I followed his instructions, cataloging the space around me through sound and air current. His voice became my anchor, and I hated how easily I trusted it.
When we switched, I guided him through the course in half the time it had taken the other pairs. He followed without hesitation, without second-guessing, and when he pulled off the blindfold at the finish line, he looked at me like I was something he couldn't quite figure out.
"You're good at this," he said.
"I've had practice."
"At blindfolding people?"
A surprised laugh escaped me. "At paying attention."
He held my gaze a beat too long. The hum was a drumroll under my skin, demanding acknowledgment I refused to give.
Reeves dismissed us, and I lingered near the climbing wall, letting my heartbeat slow. The adrenaline ebbed, and in its wake came the quieter thing—the awareness that I'd let him see too much. Not my capabilities; those could be explained. But the ease of working with him. The way my body had known his movements before he made them.
That was harder to dismiss.
Psychology 101 met in a lecture hall that smelled of old coffee and whiteboard markers. I slid into a seat near the back, pulling out a notebook.
Professor Larkin was a slight woman with graying curls and glasses that magnified her eyes. She wrote on the board in neat, deliberate letters:ATTACHMENT THEORY.
"Human beings," she began, "are wired for connection. From the moment we're born, we seek proximity to caregivers. This isn't weakness—it's evolution. Attachment is how we survive."
She clicked through slides. Bowlby. Ainsworth. Secure attachment, anxious attachment, avoidant attachment.
"Secure attachment develops when caregivers are consistently responsive. The child learns that the world is safe, that their needs will be met." Larkin paused, her eyes sweeping the room. "But what happens when early attachments are disrupted? When the caregiver is absent, unpredictable, or... lost entirely?"
My pen stopped moving.
Lost entirely.
I don't remember their faces. My parents. My first memories include Gregor and the orphanage.
"Children with disrupted attachments often develop compensatory strategies," Larkin continued. "They may become hyper-independent, learning to meet their own needs because relying on others feels too risky. Or they may attach quickly and intensely, seeking the security they never received."
Hyper-independent. The words landed like stones in my chest.
I thought of Gregor teaching me to start fires, to navigate by stars, to trust my instincts over anyone else's promises. I thought of Rae, the first person I'd chosen to let in, and how it had taken years before I stopped waiting for her to leave.
