We make it back to our room at an unhurried pace, neither of us in a rush to close the distance between thoughts and walls. As we pass the overlook that opens out toward the valley, I slow without meaning to. The lake below is smooth and glassy, catching the light in a way that makes it look unreal, like it was painted there instead of carved by time. A small boat drifts near the center, a lone figure sitting patiently with a line cast into the water.

  It’s quiet. Peaceful in a way that feels earned.

  We should go swimming there sometime, I think, the idea arriving without pressure or urgency. Just a future-shaped thought, gentle and unclaimed. The scene would make a good drawing too—the contrast of still water and distant motion, the way the valley cups the lake like it’s protecting it. I file it away, knowing I’ll probably forget anyways.

  Inside the room, the door closes softly behind us.

  I cross to the bed and lie back, hands folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. My mind keeps circling what the senior said, words turning over themselves, stretching forward into a future so long it almost stops being time at all. Millions of years. Balance. Secrets. The weight of forever presses in not as fear, but as something vast and unfamiliar.

  I’m so lost in it that I don’t react in time.

  Kai crashes into me without warning, flopping backward onto the bed with careless confidence. His weight lands squarely on my stomach, his rear planted like he’s chosen this spot deliberately, his own hands sliding up behind his head as if this was always the plan.

  I cough sharply, air knocked out of me. “Ow—”

  He doesn’t apologize.

  Payback is a bitch, as they say.

  We lie there like that for a while, my breath gradually evening out beneath his unrepentant sprawl. His presence is heavy but grounding, familiar in a way that no longer feels optional. The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that settles after something important has already been said, even if the words haven’t caught up yet.

  Eventually, Kai speaks.

  “Do you want to be my friend forever, Cal?”

  The question lands cleanly, without hesitation or drama. Just honest. Just there.

  I don’t answer right away.

  I think about what Kai is to me—not as an idea, not as a role, but as the person whose presence steadies me without effort. I think about how long he’s been beside me, how many versions of ourselves we’ve already grown out of together. A simple yes rises immediately, ready and easy, but it feels wrong. Too small for something that’s shaped so much of who I am.

  His hand is resting casually on my chest now, fingers loose, unguarded. I cover it with my own, grounding myself before I speak.

  “Yes, Kai,” I say quietly. “I do want to be your friend forever. I always have. Even before we knew breaking through grades was possible for us.”

  My voice steadies as I go on, the words lining up the way they need to. “I respect you more than anyone in the entire world. You’re brave. You’re smart. You’re… a little bit of an ass,” I add, a smirk pulling at my mouth despite myself. “But more than that, you’re the most important person in my life. I can’t imagine that ever changing.”

  I feel his hand try to tighten against my chest, instinctively searching for something to hold onto. There’s nothing there to grab, so I flip my hand over and slide it underneath his, lacing us together properly.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  We stay like that.

  Kai is turned ninety degrees across me, slowly crushing my stomach and shaving years off my life expectancy, but our hands are locked together, solid and sure. The bond settles into place with a quiet certainty, grounding us completely.

  After a moment, he answers.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

  It’s understated to the point of absurdity, but I don’t hold it against him. Kai has never been good with emotional moments. The meaning is there, even if the delivery stumbles.

  I smile anyway and squeeze his hand a little tighter, letting the room, the future, and the weight of forever wait just a little longer.

  Kai ruins the moment with a fart.

  There’s no warning. No apology. Just the sudden, undeniable reality of it, vibrating directly into my ribs. I choke out a laugh before I can stop myself and try to shove him off me, but I don’t have any leverage. He’s got my midsection pinned like this was tactical.

  He starts to giggle, shoulders shaking, utterly unrepentant.

  I squirm, trapped. “Get off me.”

  “No,” he says, still laughing, and then finally rolls away and stands in one smooth motion. The laughter fades as quickly as it came. He stretches once, like nothing meaningful just happened, and says, “I want to go eat lunch.”

  He offers me his hand.

  I take it, letting him haul me up off the bed, still laughing despite myself. Any remaining weight in the room dissolves. That’s the thing about Kai—he doesn’t let moments linger until they turn fragile. He breaks them open and lets them breathe.

  We eat.

  The dining hall is louder than it was earlier, full of movement and overlapping conversations. We don’t make it ten minutes before we start running into people we know—training partners, classmates, acquaintances who know of us well enough to be curious but not enough to be careful. They ask how we’re doing, how recovery is going, whether training’s started again.

  We answer honestly without answering too much.

  “Better.” “Slow.” “Cleared for light training.”

  Nothing untrue. Nothing revealing.

  Somewhere between bites, it becomes obvious that we’ve been putting it off long enough. We should probably go to the infirmary. The thought sits between us for a few seconds before either of us says it out loud.

  We talk about the E Grade exam while we walk.

  Retrying in a few weeks seems reasonable, at least when you’re sixteen and optimism is still a default setting. We’re both nervous. Neither of us says it directly, but it’s there in the careful way we phrase things, the way we avoid looking at each other when we mention the portal.

  “It probably fixed itself,” I say, with the confidence of someone who very much hopes that’s true.

  Kai nods. “Yeah. Probably.”

  We arrive at the infirmary, and Nurse Ray recognizes us immediately. She doesn’t make us wait. She ushers us down the hall with brisk efficiency and turns toward the room we spent weeks in.

  Kai stops dead.

  “I’m never setting foot in that room again,” he says.

  There’s heat in his voice. Not anger exactly, but something sharper than discomfort. Final.

  Nurse Ray blinks, clearly caught off guard, then recovers quickly. “All right,” she says, already turning us down a different hallway. “Another room it is.”

  She asks how we’ve been doing, reminds us that we’re two week late for our checkup. We tell her the truth. Mostly fine. Tired. Recovering. Training carefully. I ask if we can move up to four days of training a week, explaining that we’re starting to feel more like ourselves again.

  She hesitates, clearly weighing protocol against observation, then nods. “Four days,” she says. “But you listen to your bodies, and your instructors.”

  Kai gives a small, restrained fist pump that makes me smile. We leave after that, lighter than we arrived.

  We spend part of the afternoon in the library. Kai tries, carefully, to find anything about Paired Bonds without tipping his hand. He searches through folklore and historical annotations and dismissed theories. He doesn’t find anything useful. Either the information doesn’t exist here, or it’s buried far deeper than we can reach.

  By evening, we meet Finn and Banks for dinner.

  Finn launches into an animated story about something called dodgeball, gesturing wildly, reliving every absurd detail with complete sincerity. It has something to do with balls, teams, and a shocking lack of mercy. I realize midway through that this must be the game Banks mentioned earlier.

  Finn is having a great time telling it, which means we’re having a great time listening. He’s a natural storyteller, all momentum and enthusiasm, pulling everyone along whether they meant to go or not.

  By the time we head back to our room, the day feels full in the best possible way.

  We fall asleep in a loose, uncoordinated pile, limbs tangled without thought or care. The room feels settled. Familiar. Safe. Things are going back to normal.

  As sleep pulls me under, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow, to sparring again, to pushing ourselves properly, even if only for part of the day.

  For the first time in a while, that thought doesn’t scare me.