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“Yeah, because I don’t tell anyone.”

“Sorry you had to go through that.”

The words tasted like sand and regret. "Came home needing everything locked down tight. Schedules, backup plans, contingencies for contingencies. Thor calls it my 'military-grade anxiety.' I need structure all the time."

She was quiet for a long moment, processing. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller. "I used to crave structure. Someone to make decisions. Take care of everything."

My jaw clenched, but I stayed silent. Let her tell it her way.

"Turns out there's a thin line between care and cage." Her voice hardened, anger replacing vulnerability. "Started small. Choosing my clothes. Scheduling my days. Said it was for my own good, that I needed guidance."

“Damn.”

"By the time I realized I was drowning, he had... leverage."

The word hung heavy between us. I thought of the Serpents' threat, Cruz's name on that text. Connected dots I didn't like.

“Now, ever since Cruz, I’ve wanted only chaos. No rules. Not structure.”

“But you need it. We all need structure.”

She looked at me. “And we all need a bit of chaos.”

"My structure, your chaos—we're both just trying to survive our damage." I met her eyes steadily. "Neither one's more valid than the other. We're all walking wounded," I said quietly. "Some of us just hide it better."

I reached for the case, movements slow and telegraphed like she'd done with me. She didn't stop me as I opened it, revealing the neat organization inside. My thumb brushed over the stuffed dragon—soft, well-loved, innocent.

"This isn't pathetic, Lena." I set the tortoise down gently, met her eyes. "It's brave as hell."

She blinked rapidly, fighting tears. "How is keeping stuffed animals brave?"

"Because someone tried to kill this part of you." I gestured at the case. "Beat it down, made you ashamed of it. But you kept it alive anyway. Protected it. That's warrior shit."

I looked at her directly, seeing all of her—the brat who challenged everything, the artist who healed others, the Little who kept softness alive despite everything, the survivor who chose chaos over cages.

"You care so much it scares you. So you hide it under attitude and purple hair and tornado energy."

"Speaking from experience, Soldier Boy?" But her voice was soft now, wondering.

"Maybe." I shifted closer, our knees almost touching. "Maybe we're both tired of hiding."

Something shifted in the air between us, electric and inevitable. The storage room suddenly felt too small, too warm despite the pre-dawn chill. Lena's hand trembled as she reached for her dragon, and I caught it gently, my fingers wrapping around hers.

"You don't have to hide from me," I said, voice rougher than intended. "Not any part of you."

She looked up at me then, and the vulnerability in her eyes broke my last defense. Those hazel depths held fear and want in equal measure, asking questions I desperately wanted to answer.

"This is a terrible idea," she whispered, but she turned her hand in mine, fingers interlacing.

"The worst," I agreed, my free hand moving without permission to cup her face. Her skin was silk under my palm, warm and real and here. My thumb brushed her cheekbone, reverent, like she might disappear if I moved too fast.

"We're too different."

"Too damaged. Too—"

"Tyson?"

"Yeah?"