Rowan had most of Bismarck's belongings squared away by now. The two of them had worked in companionable silence, moving with quiet efficiency—he fetched, she folded and tucked things away, both grateful for the break in earlier theatrics.
But then Bismarck turned toward the door with a final, purposeful motion.
"I shall return shortly," she informed him, voice clipped. "I have one last box to retrieve."
Rowan blinked. "Want me to go grab it?"
"Absolutely not. In fact," She paused, then added with icy finality, "Do not be here when I return."
He tilted his head, confused. "Wait, what? Why not?"
"Because," Bismarck said, tone flat as a gun deck, "this last box contains things of a rather... personal nature, and I will not be unpacking them in your presence. Is that clear, Herr Rowan?"
There was a long pause. Personal nature? What could that... oh! Oh! Rowan suddenly understood. There was only one thing which the iron maiden of Germany would probably not want Rowan to see! Her underthings.
Rowan snapped off a crisp salute and gave her a thumbs-up so earnest it bordered on cartoonish. "Crystal clear. Wouldn't want to pry anyway."
"Liar," Lightning whispered in his ear, giggling like a gremlin. She was unseen and unheard by anyone else, of course, but Rowan flinched anyway.
He turned slowly toward where she lounged on Bismarck's bed and mouthed 'stop it' at the little gremlin.
Bismarck was already halfway down the hall by then, boots tapping with military precision and dignity restored. Quietly, Bismarck smiled to herself as she walked away. He hadn't made fun of her stuffies...
---
Since Bismarck had to cross campus for her final box, Rowan turned his attention to helping Hood.
Or, at least, he tried to.
The Duchess, for her part, barely looked at him.
She moved with graceful efficiency, directing her trunks and porcelain like a ballroom general—but every time he tried to offer assistance, she waved him off with a cool, quiet murmur. "I've got it, thank you." "No, no, that one's quite delicate." "Please don't trouble yourself."
It wasn't that she was rude. Not exactly.
Just… chilly.
Like she'd thrown a velvet curtain between them and dared him to breach it.
There was a tension in the air now, brittle and precise, as if he'd stepped into a museum full of priceless artifacts and wasn't allowed to breathe wrong. Her earlier fluster had vanished, replaced by something steeled and distant.
And Rowan—still shirtless and holding a box labeled 'Seasonal Hats'—could not for the life of him figure out what he'd done wrong.
---
From the moment Bismarck departed, the air shifted.
They were alone.
Hood had not expected the silence to be so loud. Nor had she expected him to act so... normal.
There he was, the boy she had nearly killed—accidentally, of course, but the fact remained—humming under his breath as he stacked her boxes with gentle care, shirtless, barefoot, and softly glowing like something from an Arthurian fever dream.
"He's singing," whispered Lear, her sea-salt voice coiling like driftwood smoke. "Your boy sings, Duchess. What a quaint little thing. Does he court the stars or simply mumble like a madman?"
Hood refused to answer. She refused to engage at all.
Her AI was a cursed thing. Regal, intelligent and And at the worst of times, observant.
Because Lear was right.
Rowan Takeda was humming 'Oak and Ash and Thorn' under his breath while trying to figure out where to put her hat box.
She watched him from the corner of her eye, desperately trying not to. Every graceful turn of his frame. Every idle sway of balance as he leaned on the balls of his feet. Every casual, helpful movement—
And the scar.
Faint and fresh. Just above the hipbone.
Her fault.
He wasn't avoiding her. He wasn't angry or cold. He hadn't even mentioned it. No wounded glances. No passive-aggressive remarks. No awkward tension.
He was just… helping.
Humming quietly and treating her like a person and not a criminal.
And she hated it. No—she hated herself for it. For not knowing what to do with that gentleness. That stupid, noble, infuriating calm.
"You could apologize," Lear offered, far too smug. "Or thank him for helping you even after everything we did. Either way, you have to make the video. You should, at the very least, see if he forgives you."
Hood ground her teeth. "I will not."
"Coward." Lear accused, coldly. "How can you be his tutor if you cannot even face him in this moment?"
Hood nearly hurled the box containing her porcelain tea set at the wall. Hearing a voice so like her own say what Hood was unwilling to acknowledge cut like a knife to the ribs.
She was being a coward.
And she couldn't bloody stand it.
---
Rowan didn't listen in. Not really. He'd been too busy trying to figure out whether Seasonal Hats belonged in the wardrobe or the underbed storage. But something about the air felt… wrong.
He glanced up just as Hood turned away from speaking to her AI, spine straight, hands carefully occupied with a stack of lace-lined boxes that didn't need adjusting.
She hadn't said more than five words since Bismarck left.
And that wasn't right.
He didn't know her well—not really. They'd only interacted twice, maybe three times if he counted the rooftop almost-kiss and the hardlight duel that followed as two separate incidents. She was aristocratic, yes. Composed. But silent?
No. Silence didn't fit the woman who had started a duel over a naval footnote from 1941.
So he sucked in a breath and spoke. "Hey… Lady Hood?"
She froze—not visibly, not dramatically, just a slight tightening of her shoulders. But he caught it.
He pressed on, gentle. "Do I need to go? Am I making you uncomfortable? Or… did I make you mad or something? Whatever it is, I'm sorry."
He meant it, too.
Maybe he'd walked in at a bad time. Maybe he'd misread something. Maybe she did want him gone, and he was just too slow to pick up the hint. But if she needed him to back off, he would.
What he didn't expect was the flicker of emotion that crossed her face and he certainly didn't expect the stomp! Like an offended lady from 'Pride and Prejudice'.
It was sharp and sudden—more of a declaration than a movement—the sound of her duelling heel slapping against polished wood with imperial fury.
Hood rounded on him, her eyes wide and wet, her cheeks flushed with indignation and something far more dangerous: shame.
"No! No, good sir! You do not get to do that!"
Rowan blinked. "Wait, what?"
She was shaking—barely—but her spine stayed straight, hands clenched at her sides like a soldier holding formation in a storm. Her voice trembled, not from weakness, but from the unbearable strain of trying not to cry.
"You don't get to stand there with your soft voice and your sad eyes and your bloody helpfulness!" she spat. "You don't get to act like you're the one who's done something wrong!"
"I—I didn't say—"
"No!" she snapped again, louder. "Yell at me! Scream! Throw something! Make a snide comment! Threaten me, if you must! Please! Just... Do anything except stand there and act like the villain in this discomfort is you!"
Her voice cracked then, raw and hoarse, the words tumbling over each other like waves crashing into each other at sea.
"I nearly killed you, God damn your eyes!" she shouted. "I nearly killed you!"
And that was the truth, wasn't it?
She had. Not with intent, not with cruelty—but with power she didn't bother to control and pride she wouldn't swallow. It had been a duel. No, it wasn't something that noble. It had been a stupid, ego-driven clash of honor. And he had nearly died because of it.
"And now you're just…" she faltered, eyes shining, "…you're just standing there, being concerned and— and helping me! Like I'm not the one who—"
Her voice broke again.
She couldn't finish and Rowan froze.
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
Nothing came out.
Because what did you say to that? What do you say to someone on the verge of breaking—someone shouting at you not because they hate you, but because they can't understand why you don't?
His mind scrambled, cycling through a thousand terrible ideas in the span of a heartbeat.
Say something comforting? No, too patronizing.
Crack a joke? Absolutely not.
Apologize again? Would only make it worse.
"Cap," Lightning said, suddenly in his head—not sharp, not smug, but soft.
She manifested beside him, a shimmer of cobalt light, arms crossed and brow furrowed with uncharacteristic solemnity.
"She's hurting. You're thinking in circles and none of them help. Just hug her."
He twitched, startled, as he felt Lightning's small digital hands on his back, urging him forward.
"Don't talk. Don't apologize. Just… let her talk. Let her cry, if she has to. Let her get it off her chest…" Her voice turned into a whisper, full of impossible tenderness.
"And put it on yours."
Rowan didn't question it. He trusted Lightning completely and as much of a goblin as she was, her emotional empathy was endless.
So he walked forward.
Gently, slowly, he crossed the space between them, arms raised like he was approaching a frightened animal—and maybe he was.
Hood didn't stop him.
When his arms wrapped around her, she went stiff at first—startled, uncomprehending—but then the tension broke, all at once, and she collapsed against him.
She reached up and clung to him. Her forehead pressed to his bare chest and her hands gripped at his back, her nails digging into the skin.
And she shook.
Not sobbing. Not yet. But close. Trembling like a warship caught in a storm, sails full and splintering.
And Rowan just held her.
No words or questions in the moment. He didn't try to fix it. He didn't know how so he just provided what he could.
Just the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his presence and the soft glow of his circuit seals. Her arms wrapped around him on instinct.
Not etiquette. Not dignity.
Just need to do something with her hands.
She clutched him like a lifeline, burying her face against the warm glow of his chest as the dam broke, her voice tumbling out in brittle, uneven gasps.
"I am so sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Or Lightning."
Her grip tightened.
"I wanted so badly to beat Bismarck. I wanted to prove I was better. And then you were there and your life's blood was—was ruining my favorite gloves and I just—froze!"
The words came faster now, tumbling out in a rush, like she'd been holding them in all night.
"Lightning was trying to help. She kept trying to carry you. And she kept vanishing and dropping you, screaming your name over and over. And the German was—she was the only reason you didn't crack your skull open right there on the roof! And she had to yell at me! Me, the Duchess of Jersey, being shouted at by Bismarck like some clueless recruit—because I just stood there like a stunned sow, staring at my hands!"
Her voice cracked, raw now.
"And when we finally got you to the infirmary—I ran. I ran to Ark Royal like a child going to confess her sins. Because I couldn't—I couldn't look at you. Lying there because of me."
She pulled back just slightly, just enough to look up at him—eyes rimmed red, breath shallow.
"How can you not hate me?" she asked, the question was so soft it hurt. "You should. You should hate me…"
And the way her voice broke on that final word told him everything.
She expected him to. Some part of her thought that she needed him to.
Because maybe then, it would match how much she hated herself.
She dug her nails into his bare back harder and finally the tears came. Not loud or wracking sobs but the quiet, hot, uncontrollable tears of guilt released. The soft cry of a confessing sinner begging for absolution.
And Rowan's heart hurt for her. He didn't like this at all. Hood should be composed and ladylike. So he rubbed her back and just waited.
After a time, she spoke. "Please say something..." She said, the feel of her tears falling on his chest burned like emotional acid. "Tell me you hate me. So that I can do the same, sir." And that nearly started Rowan weeping too. No... Absolutely not.
Rowan shook his head. "No. I won't. I don't hate you, Hood. You and Bismarck are my friends." He told her, gently rubbing her back. The canvas of her greatcoat was rough under his fingers and her tricorne poked him uncomfortably but he ignored it. "It wasn't your fault. I jumped in the way. So don't cry. Be proud and brave and noble like you should be. I'm ok and you're ok and Bismarck is OK. It all worked out! Don't worry about it."
She heard him. Every word.
Friends.
The word hit her like a cannon blast to the chest. Not comrades. Not fellow students. Friends.
She couldn't handle it.
She buried her face against him again—not to hide from him, but to shield him from the look on her face. Because it wasn't grief anymore.
It was awe.
How could someone say that? How could anyone be that forgiving? That gentle and steady?
She had watched men ruin themselves for lesser mistakes. Had listened to lectures on consequence and shame her whole life. She had trained for punishment. Prepared herself for judgment. For scorn.
And instead… she was held like something precious. Like something worth comforting.
It didn't make sense.
"He's a hero," whispered Lear, so quietly it could've been the inside of her own heart. "Like the ones in the books. A monstrous saint. A knight without armor, carrying shame that isn't his."
"No," Hood mouthed silently, hot tears slipping down her cheeks again. "That isn't fair."
It wasn't fair to him.
He should be angry. He should yell, at the very least. But no—he stood there, shirtless, glowing softly like some Austen hero who walked out of the pages and said, It's all right. I forgive you. Let's just be kind instead.
How do you even look at someone like that?What was she supposed to do with that kind of mercy?
What kind of man gives it away so freely?
She clung to him because she didn't know how else to respond.
She had nothing left but tears and the grateful euphoria of emotional release.
She didn't know how long she held him.
Time had gone soft around the edges—muffled by warmth, by breath, by the thrum of his quiet forgiveness.
She wasn't crying anymore. Not really.
Just… resting. Letting the storm drain out of her bones, letting his kindness hold what little remained of her composure together.
And then—
"Lady Catherine," came Lear's voice, dry as bone and twice as dangerous, "if you dig your nails any deeper into his back, it might be taken as invitation."
Hood went stock still.
Realization dawned on her like a cresting wave, threatening to capsize her.
She was clutching a shirtless man! Hands clawing into his back like she was his lover, face pressed to his bare chest, her breath warm against his skin. The man who was glowing faintly like a fevered Greco-Roman statue and saying kind things.
It wasn't comfort anymore.
It was a scene from some absurd penny romance!
Great Scott! The indignity! The utter shamelessness of it! She was acting the heroine of a gothic melodrama and Lear was smirking at her from the ramparts.
She pulled back so fast she nearly knocked off her hat.
Her hands smoothed her coat with violent efficiency, shoulders squaring, chin lifting—her entire body snapping back into posture like a ship righting itself.
"I offer my sincere apologies," she said stiffly, her voice wobbling somewhere between ducal poise and utter meltdown. "That was… highly unseemly. You have my thanks. For… enduring that."
She refused to meet his eyes.
She had been touching him and not chastely either!
Good God, Catherine. Pull yourself together, woman!
Rowan gave her a grin and a thumbs up, blissfully ignorant of the storm he had just unleashed inside Hood. "No problem at all. I'm here for you, if you ever need to vent again."