Page 10

TORACK

I wake up before the sun, like always, but this time it’s not from habit that kicks me out of bed—it’s that gnawing feeling under my ribs. Like something’s unfinished. Or maybe wrecked.

The kind of ache you only get when you almost had something worth breaking the rules for.

I make coffee with hands that feel too big and a mind too loud.

The camp is still asleep, wrapped in the kind of hush that only comes after a storm.

Like the world’s holding its breath. Outside, fog clings to the treetops in soft, ghostly drapes, and every pine needle sparkles under the dawn light like it’s been gilded in regret.

She’s plaguing my thoughts once again. Not even the bitter sting of hot coffee can snap me out of it. Last night’s encounter was less than professional, and I don’t just mean her wet clothing sticking a bit too much in some places.

She reads me too well. And I’m starting to enjoy it.

I cross the camp slowly, dragging my boots across gravel damp with last night’s tantrum. The paths are littered with fallen branches and leaves, and the air smells like turned earth and wet ash. I breathe it in like I’m trying to fill the part of me that still feels hollow.

I don’t expect her to be in the mess hall this early, but I should have.

Julie’s always there. First in, last out, clipboard in hand and hair pulled tight like armor.

If anything, I should’ve known she’d be even earlier today.

Get a head start on pretending like nothing happened.

Like the near-kiss in the dark, the hand that brushed her cheek, the sharp inhale right before…

No. That’s over.

Done.

Except I walk through that door and there she is.

Exactly as I pictured: sleeves rolled, mug clutched in one hand, eyes locked on some document in the other. She’s dressed practical—work boots, hoodie, scarf—but she still manages to look like something warm you’d find on purpose. Something real.

She doesn’t look up.

“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Morning,” she replies, flat and clipped.

The word hits like a wall. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t glance over. Doesn’t do that thing where she half-smiles like she knows I’m watching.

I pour my own cup of coffee, standing awkwardly at the side counter like a guest in my own mess hall. The silence stretches long and tight. I clear my throat.

“Storm didn’t hit the west ridge as bad as we thought. Mainline power’s steady. East water line’s up.”

“Good,” she says, scribbling something. “Then the welcome tent reopens at ten. We’ll have power in time for the morning briefing.”

I wait for something else—some snark, some spark—but there’s nothing. Just cool, even words like she’s reading off a spreadsheet.

I walk around the table, facing her directly. “Julie.”

She finally looks up. Her eyes meet mine, and damn if it doesn’t sting. She’s holding herself like a fortress today. Tidy. Controlled. Like she reinforced her walls overnight.

“We need to talk about last night,” I say.

Her gaze sharpens. “No, we don’t.”

“I think we do.”

“No,” she repeats, firmer this time. “Because I already got the message.”

“I didn’t send one.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says. “You backed off so fast, you nearly left skid marks.”

“I was trying to be smart.”

“Well, congrats,” she snaps. “You were. Gold star for professionalism.”

I cross my arms. “Julie?—”

“You kissed me with your eyes, Torack. You reached for me. You leaned in. I wasn’t imagining that.”

“I wasn’t going to act on it.”

“You were already acting on it,” she says. “Then you stopped. And now you’re here trying to mop it up like it was a dropped file.”

I step closer. “It wasn’t nothing.”

She laughs once—sharp and dry. “Sure feels like nothing now.”

I hate this. I hate how she’s right and how I can’t tell her that without making it worse. I hate how her shoulders look tighter and her eyes colder and how all of it’s because of me.

I hate that I want to grip that ponytail of hers in my fist and-

“You work for me,” I say, quiet, crushing down those thoughts.

She rolls her eyes. “There it is.”

“It matters.”

“Why?” she demands. “Because you think I can’t separate feelings from function? You think I’d derail this whole camp because of a kiss that didn’t even happen?”

“No,” I say quickly. “No. I think I would.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I’m the one who can’t separate it. You walk into a room, and I stop thinking straight. You smile and I lose track of whatever crisis I was trying to solve. I’ve run battlefields with less chaos than what you put in my head.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.

“I’m responsible for all of this,” I say, voice low. “The kids. The land. The board. My daughter. If I let this... whatever it is between us... run wild, I’m not sure I’ll come back from it.”

“That’s not protection,” she says after a beat. “That’s fear.”

I look down. “I know.”

She steps toward me. “You’re allowed to want something, Torack. You’re allowed to feel. Not just for her. For you.”

“I can’t risk it.”

“And I can’t stay in a place where every honest thing I feel gets treated like a liability.”

Her voice breaks, just slightly. She turns away before I can see the rest.

“I’ll keep doing the job,” she says, straightening. “I’ll plan the events, wrangle the goblins, keep your chaos running. But I’m not apologizing for wanting something that felt real.”

I step forward, but she’s already moving—papers gathered, mug in hand, scarf wrapped too tight.

She pauses at the door, just for a second.

“You’re not the only one carrying this camp,” she says. “You just forgot I was strong enough to help.”

And then she’s gone.

I’m left standing in a quiet room that feels like it used to be full of something that mattered.

And now it’s just me, and rules.

And a storm that didn’t even do the real damage.