The late-afternoon sun dipped low over the forest, glowing honey-gold across the treetops as two figures emerged from the woods, soaked, muddy, and very obviously done with life.

  Luna stomped first, spear still in hand, every step splashing mud off her boots. Her braid was half-unraveled, her clothes were drenched, and her expression could have curdled milk.

  Trey followed behind her, grinning like a man who had absolutely caused whatever disaster had just happened.

  “Don’t,” Luna snapped before he even opened his mouth.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” Trey lied immediately. “Except that you still look good. Honestly, mud suits your eyes.”

  She stopped mid-stomp.

  Turned.

  Glared like she was two seconds away from murdering him with the butt of her spear.

  “My eyes,” she said flatly, “are not mud-compatible. And why did you have to—”

  And she kept going.

  Luna launched into a full-volume tirade, hands gesturing, braid swinging, mud dripping everywhere, detailing every offense Trey Lancaster had committed in the past five minutes.

  It was passionate.

  It was furious.

  It was absolutely justified.

  Trey heard none of it.

  Not a single word.

  Not because he was ignoring her — he never ignored Luna — but because something about her expression snagged his attention in a way he wasn’t used to.

  The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, warm, honeyed, catching in her cognac eyes. It turned the brown into something warmer, deeper, like polished amber.

  He blinked. Surprised.

  His heart clenched so hard he almost stumbled.

  Huh.

  She really does have striking eyes.

  And the way she looked while she scolded him. Alive, fierce, ridiculously beautiful.

  Luna’s voice rose a little. “—and you dragged me into a mud pond! For what?! Dramatic effect?!”

  “Mm-hmm,” Trey murmured, still staring a little too long before he dragged his gaze back to her forehead where it belonged.

  Something shifted quietly in the background of his chest, like someone nudged a chair half an inch out of place.

  Barely noticeable.

  Barely anything.

  Yet there.

  A small snort escaped him before he could stop it.

  Not because he found her anger funny, he valued his life, but because the idea of “mud not suiting her eyes” was absurdly wrong.

  Everything suits your eyes.

  Luna stopped mid-rant. “Are you even listening?!”

  Trey straightened instantly. “Of course I am. I heard… most of it.”

  “Most,” she repeated flatly.

  He nodded once, too quickly. “The important bits.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  He pretended not to notice the way the sun hit them again, because he already felt a small flutter in his chest he did not have the emotional capacity to examine right now.

  “You made us look ridiculous!” She exclaimed.

  “No, I made us look like two warriors, battle-worn, mud-streaked, walking out of the forest like legends. People would talk.”

  “They will talk,” Luna corrected, “about how an idiot pulled his partner into a swamp.”

  “Pond,” Trey corrected.

  “Swamp,” Luna repeated coldly.

  Trey sighed, reached for a streak of mud on her cheek.

  She slapped his hand away and kept walking, grumbling.

  They were halfway across the courtyard when she stiffened.

  A ring of students circled Francis, who was sitting cross-legged on the dirt, mortar in one hand, scribbling in a notebook with the other, completely absorbed and utterly oblivious to being mocked.

  Herbs clung to his sleeves, stains patterned his shirt, and bits of powder dusted his blonde hair like snow. As usual.

  And somehow, despite looking like a disaster, he smelled oddly calming, herbs and something warm but cool at the same time.

  One boy snickered, “Careful where you sit, Francis. Wouldn’t want you mixing dirt into your little fake remedies.”

  Another chimed, “Did you steal that from a real healer’s handbook?”

  Another laughed. “Awww, look. The Pine Hollow pet doctor thinks he’s special.”

  Luna stepped forward, jaw tightening. “Hey—”

  But Trey beat her by half a second.

  “Fake?” he snapped. “You Elm Ridge amateurs can’t treat a papercut without writing a thesis first.”

  “He could use bark and charcoal and still outperform your entire house,” Reid strode from across the yard. “Keep bothering him. See what happens.”

  One of them pale instantly at the sight of her.

  And before anyone could say anything—

  THUD

  A massive crate slammed onto the ground beside them.

  Everyone turned.

  Blake stood over it, sweaty, bruised from training, hair wild, looking like someone who fought a bear with his bare hands instead of two idiots with proper weapons.

  “Doc. These the bandages you want? The supply lady said this is enough for a week.”

  Francis didn’t look up. “That depends entirely on the delightful behavior of my housemates. Especially you, Blake.”

  Blake cracked his knuckles.

  “So… probably not enough, then.”

  He jerked his chin toward the Elm Ridge students. “‘Cause you’ll be using some of these on them too, right?”

  The Elms flinched. Tried to look brave.

  Francis sighed. “Blake, please don’t physically educate anyone.”

  “I’m not assaulting anyone,” Blake said calmly. “I’m giving them a chance to walk away.”

  The bullies scattered instantly, muttering excuses all the way down the path.

  Blake dusted off his hands smugly. “You alright, Creek?”

  Francis closed his notebook. “Perfectly. Their voices don’t reach my frequency.”

  Trey blinked. “…Your frequency?”

  “Yes. Civilized.”

  Reid marched closer, grinned. “You tell them, sunshine!”

  “I— Reid. Don’t. Call me that.” Francis stuttered.

  Reid beamed, absolutely delighted.

  Luna watched the bullies disappear and frowned.

  “…Why did they even come for him? He doesn’t bother anyone.”

  If it were Trey, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Trey shrugged. “Oh, that? They’re Elm Ridge healers. They’re mad Francis didn’t join their cult”

  “…Cult?”

  “Healer club,” Trey corrected. “Same thing. They want him to share his secret recipe, think he has some ancient healing formula that turns people invincible.”

  Francis sputtered. “I DO NOT.”

  Trey leaned closer and whispered, loud enough for Francis to hear,

  “He definitely does.”

  Luna laughed, soft and amazed at how Trey’s brain worked.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And yet,” Trey said proudly, “irresistible. Come on, doc. Home time.”

  Then he hooked an arm, a muddy arm, around Francis’s neck and hauled him upright.

  Francis shrieked. “You got mud on me. Ew!”

  “Ew? EW? After all the times I’ve rooted for you?”

  “You did this on purpose!”

  “Why does everyone always know my purpose?!”

  Reid dragged a hand down her face. “Because you project every purpose you have.”

  Together, all of them walked back toward Pine Hollow.

  Francis, still hooked by Trey, did not resist, but complained the whole way.

  Blake followed behind, carrying the crate, shaking his head fondly at Francis grumbling about “unsanitary mud contamination” and Trey tracking footprints like an overgrown toddler.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He wasn’t really paying attention, just moving on instinct, until a soft laugh drifted across the courtyard.

  Light. Warm. Unmistakably hers.

  Abby.

  Blake’s steps faltered.

  He turned, and the sight hit him square in the chest, sharp, unexpected, like taking a sparring blow without bracing.

  There she was, sitting with a small cluster of book-club students beneath the trellis.

  Sunlight spilled over the curls he liked too much, bouncing each time she laughed at something the Ink Boy— the one beside her— said.

  The boy had the look that made Blake frown instantly.

  Clean uniform. Ink-stained fingertips that suggested quiet hours writing, not fighting.

  A calm, scholarly smile.

  The kind of boy who knew how to hold a book gently and speak softly without tripping over his own tongue.

  There was something effortless about him, collected, composed, tidy in all the ways Blake wasn’t after training.

  Abby laughed again at something he said.

  And Blake—sweaty, muddy, hair a mess, arms still sore from drills—became painfully aware of every rough edge he had.

  Ink Boy didn’t have mud on him.

  Ink Boy didn’t yell across the courtyards.

  Ink Boy didn’t accidentally break desks with enthusiasm.

  He stood very still.

  The crate slipped in his hands just a little.

  Abby hadn’t even meant to join a book club.

  She’d merely passed the greenhouse one afternoon and overheard someone passionately debating whether tragic endings were noble or lazy writing. Ten minutes later, she was sitting in the grass, surrounded by six people in knitted scarves and mismatched mittens.

  It turned out book club members were the same everywhere, polite, intense, easily excitable, and aggressively allergic to sunlight.

  She fit right in.

  A week later, they were gathered in the open garden, sunlight slanting through the trellis as they passed around tea and dissected character flaws. Timothy—quiet, spectacles slightly crooked, thumb permanently ink-stained—made a joke that caught Abby off guard and pulled a shy laugh from her chest.

  And that was exactly when Blake walked past.

  He stopped as if he’d just spotted a wild animal.

  Curiosity flickered across his face.

  Then suspicion.

  Then something far more primal.

  Abby didn’t notice him staring.

  But the rest of the courtyard did.

  The next day, Abby arrived at the meeting spot and sat with her usual group—

  —and Blake Ashford dropped down beside her, cross-legged, holding a book upside-down.

  The entire circle froze.

  “…Ashford. You… read?” The club leader asked.

  “I read words,” Blake replied flatly.

  “…You joined the book club?”

  Abby turned slowly, fully taking him in now, as if afraid he might vanish if she blinked.

  “Yes.”

  His voice came out too loud. He flinched.

  “…Why?”

  “Why not?” This time, he spoke quieter.

  For the first ten minutes, Blake behaved like a knight disguised as furniture, arms crossed, spine rigid, eyes glued to Abby while the book lay untouched in his lap.

  The club tried to proceed.

  “Today’s question: Is a flawed main character still likable if they refuse to change?” The leader began.

  Timothy answered immediately. “Depends. Some flaws are charming if the intent is—”

  “Cowardice isn’t charming,” Blake cut in.

  Everyone blinked.

  “…Well, no, I meant—”

  “If he doesn’t change because he’s weak, that’s pathetic,” Blake said, as if stating a universal law.

  “Blake…” Abby whispered, already bracing for violence.

  “O-Okay! Let’s hear other perspectives?” The leader said quickly.

  “I was saying growth can be subtle,” Timothy continued. “Some characters don’t shout it with swords.”

  “Then they should,” Blake insisted.

  Across the lawn, Trey and Ermin were walking side by side, Ermin mid-lecture, Trey mid-grin, when they stopped in unison.

  “…Is that Blake?” Trey squinted. “Sitting on cushions?”

  “Is he… debating literature?” Ermin stared.

  “I need to witness this,” Trey said, already sprinting.

  “I need to intervene before he challenges someone to a duel over metaphor,” Ermin muttered, following.

  The argument escalated.

  “Not all stories need action! Some battles are internal!” Timothy snapped.

  “Internal battles don’t leave scars,” Blake shot back, relentless.

  “They do if you feel things!”

  “Blake, please—” Abby was very close to disappearing into the soil.

  He joined my book club.

  He JOINED my book club.

  This is worse than being carried in front of everyone.

  He is reading OUT LOUD.

  “FIGHT HIM WITH ADVERBS, ASHFORD!” Trey yelled from a distance.

  “DO NOT INTERFERE,” Ermin snapped, grabbing Trey by the collar.

  Later that night at Pine Hollow, Blake cornered Trey after dinner.

  “Question.”

  “Is this about swords or feelings? I need to prepare mentally,” Trey said, patting the hands gripping his collar.

  Why does everybody love doing this? It’s just a cotton shirt!

  Oh, maybe that’s why.

  “…Can books cause injuries?” Blake asked.

  Trey blinked. “Emotionally?”

  “…Yes.”

  “Only if you read them properly.”

  “…Teach me.” He let go of Trey’s shirt.

  Trey immediately dragged Ermin into the situation. And faced with Blake’s hopeful expression, the teacher in Ermin folded without resistance.

  Now seated at a table, Blake stared at the book like it might lunge.

  Ermin sat across from him. Trey lounged on the armrest at a safe distance.

  Blake pointed at a sentence. “What does wistful mean?”

  “Longing. Quiet sadness,” Ermin replied.

  “So… battle that hasn’t happened yet?”

  “…Acceptable interpretation.”

  “And melancholy?”

  “Deeper sorrow. Heavier.”

  “Like when Abby walks ahead but doesn’t wait for me.”

  “Oh dear, she was trying to escape you,” Trey clarified.

  “Write that down,” Ermin said. “That is the correct usage.”

  The next meeting, Blake returned, this time with a notebook.

  Timothy looked personally endangered.

  Topic of the Day: Can a character be truly brave without physical strength?

  “Bravery is emotional,” Timothy began. “Perseverance. Vulnerability.”

  “Bravery is standing your ground when something could hit you,” Blake added.

  “Not all battles are physical.”

  “Then they don’t count.”

  Oh no. Abby already felt a throb running up her temple.

  Ermin and Trey observed from a bench nearby, disguised as a picnic.

  “Place your bets!” Trey whispered. “My coin’s on metaphor boy!”

  “He will die,” Ermin said calmly.

  “Metaphorically?”

  “Physically.”

  When the meeting ended, the sun dipped low, washing the garden in amber light. Blake sat rigid, notebook untouched. He’d stumbled over every metaphor, butchered ephemeral three times, and retreated into silence.

  Abby stood, cheeks warm with embarrassment and confusion. Without thinking, she grabbed his sleeve.

  “Come on.”

  He looked up, startled.

  She pulled him away, behind a hedge where the air cooled and the voices faded.

  Blake stood awkwardly, shoulders tense, like he was bracing for impact.

  “Blake,” Abby said, breathing a little uneven now that they were alone. “What is going on? Why are you suddenly… joining book clubs?”

  He hesitated.

  Then, quietly, “He made you laugh.”

  “What? Who?”

  “That ink fingers boy.” His face was full of mockery.

  She blinked. “So?”

  He frowned, clearly struggling to explain something he hadn’t fully understood himself. “So I didn’t like it.”

  “You—what?”

  “I thought maybe it takes book words to make you smile.” He scratched the back of his neck. “And I wanted to be that person.”

  Her fingers tightened on his sleeve.

  “Why do you even care if I laugh?” She muttered.

  Blake didn’t dodge the question. Didn’t joke. Didn’t posture.

  “Because when you laugh, my chest gets warm. And I want that again.”

  Her face burned.

  “And that boy kept looking at me like I’m an idiot.”

  “You’re not dumb.” Her voice came out firmer than she expected. She looked up at him, eyes catching the sunlight just right, turning gold. “Do you know how impressive you are on the battlefield?”

  He blinked. “…Impressive?”

  “I meant—”

  “You think I’m impressive?”

  Abby laughed nervously. “I do. Yes. I admire your ability to fight a lot.”

  “You? … admire me?” His blush spread fast and helpless, matching hers.

  “Stop repeating everything I say. Yes, I admire you! But, Blake, listen. You don’t have to try this hard to be smart. You don’t have to prove anything,” she said, more gently now. “Not to me. Not to anyone.”

  “Really? You’re okay if I’m dumb?”

  She smiled, small but sincere. “I sure am.”

  Something shifted in him then, decision settling into place.

  He leaned closer. “Great.”

  Her heart jumped straight into her throat. She took a small step back, instinct more than thought.

  He didn’t retreat.

  Instead, he tilted his head, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned in until his forehead nearly brushed hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him, sun-warmed skin, the faint metallic scent of training grounds, effort, him.

  “I’m physically better anyway.”

  Before she could ask better than what,

  he kissed her.

  Not rough.

  Not clumsy.

  Warm. Steady.

  Like he was grounding himself through her. Like he needed to be sure she was real and still there. His hand hovered at her waist, not touching, giving her time. Space. Choice.

  She didn’t pull away.

  For one suspended second, Abby forgot how breathing worked.

  Then he pulled back, barely an inch, eyes wide, searching her face, braced for rejection.

  “If you want me out of the nerds’ club,” he said suddenly, words tumbling out half too fast, half too stubborn, “you’ve got to let me do it my way.”

  She blinked, flustered. “Do… what?”

  “This.”

  He moved closer again.

  She slapped his chest. It was like hitting a stone.

  “Ow!”

  “Why not? You didn’t like it?”He asked, taking her hand gently, rubbing her sore palm, grounding her again without realizing it.

  “But I did.” He continued. “I like you. A lot.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean why? What’s not to like? I’m sure that Ink boy also—”

  “Really?” Her voice pitched, cutting him in.

  Blake's expression went grim. “Why are you happy he likes you?”

  “I’m not!”

  “Good.” He exhaled, relief softening his shoulders. “Because truth is, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since the day you stepped onto the yard. I’ve liked you long before that book-worm. And I like you a lot more.”

  Her gaze dropped.

  “…But I’m fat.”

  He went very still.

  “Who said that?”

  “I told myself.”

  His expression softened immediately.

  “Then I should kiss you instead.”

  “Blake!”

  “You’re not fat. Not now. Not ever.” His voice was fierce, certain. “And I know because I’ve carried you more times than I can count, and I meant it every single time. If you still don’t believe me, jump on my back right now.”

  She blinked, torn between laughter and tears.

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “So are you.”

  He leaned in again, slow, waiting.

  And Abby surprised herself.

  She met him halfway.

  One hand rose, hesitant, gripping the front of his shirt like it was the only solid thing in the world.

  The kiss wasn’t rushed this time. It was steadier. Warmer. Less surprise, more promise.

  When they finally broke apart, her legs wobbled.

  “Need help walking?”

  “No.”

  She took one step, nearly tripped.

  His arm was already around her waist.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  They walked together in silence, his arm firm and sure, her hand still fisted in his shirt.

  “Just so you know…” He breathed. “I’m not quitting the book club.”

  She groaned.

  “I’m improving.” He pulled her closer.

  She buried her face in her hand.

  And neither of them complained again.