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He demonstrates. On my arm. His fingers slide beneath the fabric. Brief. Clinical. Normal. My entire brain remembers his hand at my waist. Traitor. I go still. Barely. Rhyven notices. His eyes lift. "Problem?"

"No, Chief."

"Then relax your arm." I do. He adjusts the bandage. His knuckles brush the inside of my elbow. Completely accidental. Probably. The memory of the training wall becomes profoundly unhelpful.

"There." He says. Then walks away. That's it. No pause. No strange look. Nothing. I stare after him.

Nyra is three stations away. She catches my eye. Raises one eyebrow. Oh, fuck you, Nyra.

At lunch, I watch Rhyven for another four minutes.

Maybe five. Nyra sits beside me. I can feel her knowing. I hate that too. Finally— "Say it."

She looks innocent. "Say what?"

"Whatever smug little sentence is living inside your head."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Nyra."

She takes a bite.

"You seem observant today." I kick her under the table. She smiles.

Afternoon joint combat is worse. Not because it's harder. Because Rhyven is teaching our section. Apparently the universe hates me personally. We are working through close-range formation breakdowns. No manifestations. Again. Magic suppression preparation. Teams of four. Two defenders. One injured ally. One rear guard. The formation must survive even if one person's manifestation disappears. Rhyven demonstrates with Dax. Fast.

Clean. No wasted motion. They know each other well enough that the demonstration looks almost effortless. Then Rhyven calls our group.

"Vaelith." I step forward. "Rear guard." I nod. Nyra becomes defender. A wolf second-year takes the opposite side. Cassian plays injured ally. He immediately collapses dramatically.

Rhyven looks at him. "You're injured."

"I am."

"Not dead."

Cassian raises his head. "Emotionally—"

"Up."

Cassian sighs. "Everyone hates performance art."

The drill begins. We move. First turn. Good. Second. Better. The wolf misses a signal. I compensate. Nyra shifts. Cassian drags one foot dramatically despite the fact that the simulated injury is his shoulder. I hiss, "Wrong limb."

"I panic creatively." We make it through anyway.

"Again." Rhyven says. Of course.

Third round. Someone collides with our formation from the adjacent group. I pivot too early. Rhyven catches my upper arm. "Stop." My body stops. Unfortunately, my thoughts don't. His hand is warm through my sleeve. He moves my elbow half an inch. "Here." I stare forward. Not at him. "Your guard opens when you compensate left."

"I know."

"Then stop doing it."

"Helpful."

His hand slides from my arm. Gone. I exhale. Bad idea. He hears. Of course. "What."