Rosa’s there too, sunglasses on, braid loose.
Marco drops beside her. “What’d we miss?”
“Enzo nearly choked on a grape,” she says dryly.
I scan the clearing, Aoife sits beneath the oak, distant from Conor, who’s still glaring at anyone that looks her way.
Laughter rolls through the garden, soft as wind in the hedges. I lean back on the bench, cigarette burning slowly between my fingers.
For a moment, it almost feels normal. Almost.
But I can’t unclench my jaw. My pulse won’t settle. Because across the grass, Conor leans too close again.
Marco mutters, “You gonna keep staring or end him?”
I flick the ash from my cigarette. “Just watching.”
The banter hums around me: family, noise, routine, but none of it touches me.
My focus stays locked on her.
The rooftop groansbeneath my boots. Wind cuts across the stone, sharp and cold. I light a cigarette, watching the smoke twist toward the night.
Far below, the lighthouse blinks steady, patient like it’s ready for whatever is coming.
She’s already here.
Aoife stands near the edge, back to me, silver light spilling over her shoulders. Her hair’s tied up, exposing the curve of her neck. The knife I gave her glints in her hand, bright as bone.
“You came,” she says without turning.
“I said I would.” I flick the cigarette over the ledge and move closer, jacket pulled tight against the wind. The air feels wrong tonight, too still, too heavy. “We don’t have much time. I need to show you something.”
Her shoulders tighten. “Another trick?”
“No. Survival.”
She turns, eyes meeting mine. She looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, dark circles smudging her skin, but she’s here. Still fighting. Still standing.
I hold out my hand. “Give me the knife.”
She hesitates, then places it in my palm.
“This blade isn’t for warning shots,” I say. “It’s quiet. It finishes what it starts. You should too.” The knife spins once across my knuckles, muscle memory, a glint of steel cutting the moonlight. I step behind her, close enough to feel her breath catch.
“Like this.” I guide her hand, my fingers closing over hers, firm but steady. “Too tight and you’ll shake. Too loose and you’ll lose it.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” My voice drops near her ear, rougher now. “But trying won’t save you.”
She swallows hard, lips parting, but she nods.
We move together slash, block, retreat, thrust.
The rhythm builds, her movements sharpening, breath syncing with mine.
What we’re doing doesn’t feel like training anymore.
