The courtyard had long since gone quiet by the time I finally pulled myself away.
The fire had burned down to embers, glowing faintly in the dark like the last heartbeat of the night. Empty mugs and scattered chairs were left behind as proof that, for a few hours, we had been something other than survivors.
People.
I wrapped my arms loosely around myself as I walked toward the bunker entrance, the cool night air brushing against my skin. The alcohol still lingered in my system—not enough to make me careless, but enough to soften the sharp edges of everything. My thoughts felt slower, warmer. Lighter.
For once.
A faint smile tugged at my lips as I stepped inside.
The bunker was quiet now. No laughter. No movement. Just the low hum of generators and the distant echo of someone shifting in their sleep. The sleeping quarters would be packed, bodies crammed into bunks, the air thick and stale.
I wasn't ready for that yet.
I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair as I walked down the corridor.
That's when I saw it.
Light.
Faint, but unmistakable, spilling out from the training room at the end of the hall.
The gym.
I frowned slightly.
At this hour?
Most people would be passed out after tonight.
Curiosity tugged at me. Or maybe it was something else. Restlessness. The leftover energy from the night. The alcohol humming quietly in my veins.
Either way, my feet carried me toward the door before I could think twice.
The closer I got, the more I could hear it—the dull, rhythmic thud of impact. Controlled. Precise.
Someone was training.
Of course they were.
I pushed the door open.
And immediately regretted not bracing myself.
My foot caught on the edge of one of the mats—my balance slipping before I could react.
"Shit—"
I lurched forward—
—and didn't hit the ground.
Strong hands caught me.
Firm. Steady.
For a split second, everything stilled.
I blinked, my breath catching slightly as I looked up.
Xavier.
Of course it was him.
He stood there, barely fazed, one arm still braced around me to keep me upright. And for a moment—just a moment—I forgot how to breathe.
He was shirtless.
And it hit me harder than it should have.
The harsh overhead lights of the gym carved shadows across his body, highlighting every defined line of muscle like it had been sculpted with intention. His shoulders were broad, his torso lean but powerful, marked with scars that told stories I didn't know yet.
And the tattoos.
They stretched across his arms and shoulders, dark ink winding over skin like something alive. My gaze flickered—just briefly—to the symbol at the base of his neck.
Up close, it looked even more deliberate.
More... personal.
Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it.
I cleared my throat softly, suddenly very aware of how close we were.
"Thanks," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
He didn't let go immediately.
His eyes held mine—dark, steady, unreadable.
And then, slowly, he released me.
Just a nod.
That was it.
Of course it was.
I huffed a small breath, straightening slightly as I regained my balance. "You know," I muttered, brushing my dress down, "most people would say something."
Nothing.
Not even a flicker.
I tilted my head, studying him, the faint buzz of alcohol making me a little bolder than usual.
"You're very cold, you know that?"
Still nothing.
I almost laughed.
"Or is that just your thing?" I continued, stepping a little closer without really thinking about it. "Silent, intense, always watching like you're assessing everyone for weaknesses?"
His jaw shifted slightly.
Barely noticeable.
But I saw it.
"Honestly," I added, a teasing edge slipping into my voice, "I'm starting to think fighting is the only way you know how to communicate."
That got a reaction.
Subtle—but real.
His gaze sharpened, something flickering behind it. Not anger. Not quite.
Interest.
Dangerous, quiet interest.
For a second, the room felt smaller.
The air heavier.
He took a step toward me.
Slow. Controlled.
And just like that, the space between us disappeared.
"Is that what you think?" he asked.
It was the first time I'd heard his voice directed at me.
Low.
Calm.
Dangerously steady.
It sent a strange shiver down my spine.
I held his gaze, refusing to back down. "So far? Yeah."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Would you test that?" he asked.
My breath caught, just slightly.
The way he said it—it wasn't just a question.
It was a challenge.
And something else.
Something that made my pulse pick up despite myself.
I crossed my arms loosely, raising an eyebrow. "You asking me to fight you?"
His head tilted a fraction. "I'm asking if you'd dare."
There it was.
That edge.
Sharp. Controlled. Almost teasing—but not quite.
I let out a soft breath through my nose, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between us. I could feel the heat radiating off him now, grounding and distracting all at once.
"You've seen me fight," I said quietly. "You already know I would."
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"I know you're good," he replied.
Not a compliment.
A fact.
That somehow made it hit harder.
"But?" I prompted.
A faint pause.
Then, "I don't know how far you'd go."
Something in my chest tightened.
I tilted my head slightly, studying him. "Only one way to find out, right?"
For a second, neither of us moved.
The tension sat there—thick, electric, unspoken.
Then he stepped back.
Just enough.
"Fine," he said.
Simple.
Direct.
Of course.
He gestured toward the mat behind me.
"Show me."
I let out a quiet laugh under my breath, rolling my shoulders slightly as I turned.
"Careful," I murmured, glancing back at him. "You might not like what you find."
There was the faintest hint of something in his expression.
"Try me."
I moved first.
Not fast—not yet.
Testing.
Circling slightly, watching him the same way he always watched everyone else. His stance was relaxed, but I could see it—the readiness beneath it. The precision.
He wasn't just strong.
He was trained.
Disciplined.
Every movement calculated.
Good.
That made two of us.
I lunged.
Fast.
A direct strike meant to test his reaction time—
He blocked it instantly.
Of course he did.
His hand caught my wrist, grip firm but controlled, redirecting my momentum instead of stopping it.
Efficient.
I twisted, using the motion to pivot into a second strike—
He anticipated it.
His other hand caught my arm, pulling me slightly off balance before releasing just enough to let me recover.
Not overpowering.
Testing me back.
I smiled.
"Not bad," I said lightly.
"You're predictable," he replied.
I scoffed. "You wish."
This time, I didn't hesitate.
I went in harder.
Faster.
A combination of strikes, forcing him to react instead of analyze—
We moved across the mat, steps quick and sharp, the sound of impact echoing through the empty gym.
I pivoted again, trying to break through his guard—
And then—
A sharp sound.
Fabric tearing.
I felt it before I fully registered it—the side of my dress catching under the tension of movement, splitting slightly along my thigh as I twisted out of his hold.
I froze for half a second.
Just enough.
Xavier didn't.
But something changed.
His grip faltered—barely.
His eyes flicked downward.
Not for long.
Just a moment.
But I saw it.
The shift in focus. The break in that perfect control.
My bare leg was exposed where the fabric had torn, the cool air brushing against my skin—
—and for the first time since I'd met him—
Xavier hesitated.
I raised an eyebrow, breath slightly uneven.
"Distracted?" I asked, voice low, edged with amusement.
His jaw tightened.
His gaze snapped back to mine instantly, sharper than before.
"No."
Too quick.
I almost laughed.
"Careful," I said, stepping in closer again, using that brief crack in his focus. "You're starting to look... human."
That did it.
Something darker flickered in his eyes.
This time when he moved, it was faster.
More direct.
His hand caught my wrist again, pulling me in with more force than before—not rough, but enough to close the distance instantly.
I stumbled forward—
Right into him.
His other hand came to my side again, steadying me—but this time, it lingered just a fraction longer.
Too aware.
Too close.
My breath caught.
His gaze dropped again—
Just briefly.
To the tear in the dress.
Then back to my eyes.
Controlled.
But not untouched.
"You're using it," he said quietly.
Not accusing.
Observing.
I tilted my head slightly. "Using what?"
His grip tightened just a fraction.
"The distraction."
I smirked.
"Seems like it's working."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
The air between us felt heavier now. Charged in a different way.
Not just the fight.
Something else.
Something sharper.
His eyes held mine, unreadable—but there was something there now that hadn't been before.
Awareness.
"Careful, Gemini," he said, voice low. "That goes both ways."
A small shiver ran down my spine despite myself.
I didn't step back.
"Then don't get distracted," I replied.
A pause.
Then—
"Too late."
The words were quiet.
Almost lost between us.
But I heard them.
And something in my chest tightened in response.
For a second, the fight didn't matter anymore.
Then I pulled away, just enough to break the moment, forcing a breath back into my lungs.
"Looks like I win that round," I said lightly, though my voice wasn't as steady as before.
His gaze followed me.
Still intense.
Still locked in.
"Not even close."
But there was no denial in his eyes anymore.
Only something far more dangerous.
And as I turned toward the door, I could still feel it—
That shift.
That line we'd just crossed.