Kai finally speaks, his head still resting against my shoulder. There is no greeting, no warning, no easing into it.

  “My grandmother died.”

  He stays there after saying it, weight settled against me, breathing slow and even. Minutes pass. I let them. I keep my eyes on the table in front of us and don’t try to fill the space. I have known him long enough to know that questions right now would only push him further in.

  His arms hang loose at his sides. After a moment, I reach over and lightly take his wrist. Not tight. Not pulling. Just enough to let him know I am there.

  He lets out a long breath.

  “It’s sad,” he says quietly. “But we had a lot of warning. She was mid E Grade, but she stalled out a while ago.”

  He sighs again, the sound barely louder than his breath.

  I give his wrist a gentle squeeze and leave my hand there.

  “She waited until her eight hundredth birthday.” He sniffs once and clears his throat. “I knew she was old, but she didn’t seem old. I guess she wasn’t really that old for an E Grade.”

  He lifts one hand and wipes at his nose. There are no tears yet. His voice stays steady, but it takes a little more effort now.

  “We had a celebration of her life. All her children came. Most of the grandchildren too, the ones who could make it.” A small smile appears and fades just as quickly. “I didn’t know I had that many cousins. Or aunts. Or uncles.”

  He goes quiet again. I can feel the tension in his shoulders through the thin fabric of his clothes. I don’t move my arm. I don’t rush him.

  “At around ten that night,” he says finally, “she thanked everyone. She told us she loved us.”

  His voice softens on that part.

  “Then she went to her cultivation chamber.”

  The words hang between us. He stops speaking and stares ahead, eyes unfocused. Time stretches. The noise of the cafeteria fades into something distant and unimportant.

  “I think my father knew what to expect,” he says after a while. “She had been planning it for a long time. Like I said, it wasn’t a surprise.”

  His breathing hitches just a little before he continues.

  “The next morning, we went to her chamber.”

  He sniffs again.

  “I thought there would be a body.”

  “There was nothing there. And everyone else seemed to expect that.”

  He does not lift his head, but his eyes flick up toward me for a brief second before dropping away. Then he gently pulls his hand free from mine, folds forward, and rests his elbows on the table. His face disappears into his hands.

  That is when I hear the quiet sniffs. He’s trying to hide it.

  I slide my arm fully around his shoulders and draw him in just enough that he can lean if he wants to. I don’t say anything. I don’t try to offer comfort with words I would only trip over.

  I sit with him and let him have the space he needs.

  The oatmeal in front of me goes cold. The rest of the morning drifts past without my notice. Whatever I was supposed to do today can wait.

  Eventually Kai settles. The sniffing fades, his shoulders lowering as his breathing evens out. He stays bent forward with his head in his hands for a while longer, and then I hear his voice, muffled and quiet.

  “I missed you.”

  There is something almost embarrassed about the way he says it, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. Maybe he feels self conscious about being this close in public. Maybe he thinks he should pull back, straighten up, act normal.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I do not.

  He’s in a vulnerable place right now, and I am not going to let what anyone else might think ruin this moment. If people are watching, they can watch. I slide my arm a little more securely around his shoulders and stay where I am.

  I missed him too.

  I don’t say it out loud. Not yet. We have known each other long enough that it doesn’t need to be said right this second.

  We are like oatmeal and fruit. One of them is terrible without the other, at least in the morning. That analogy pops into my head uninvited, and I groan a little inwardly.

  I am not good at analogies.

  Also, I absolutely cannot let Kai know he is the oatmeal. Steady. Warm. Kind of gluey. The kind of thing that holds everything together.

  I am obviously the fruit. More pop. Thinner skin. You know what you are getting from me right away. Also, I’m sweet. That part is important.

  We noticed it a few years ago, before they let us into the advanced track at the Second Gate Academy, which I still think is a little on the nose as a name. If you did not grow up around it, the First Gate is F Grade. Basically just being born into the Clan counts as passing through it. The Second Gate is E Grade. That is what Kai and I are aiming for.

  Anyway.

  Around the time we hit puberty, something started to change. At first we thought it was just strength. Growing into our bodies. Longer reach. Better balance. More endurance. Normal things.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  We started working together better. Not because we talked about it or planned it, but because it kept happening. Lockstep. Mirroring. Always just slightly aware of where the other was. Staying out of each other’s way without thinking about it.

  Most of the time.

  There were still plenty of moments where we messed it up completely and ended up tangled together in a mess of limbs and staffs. Those always ended the same way, laughing until it hurt and then starting over like nothing happened.

  I look down at Kai now, still quiet, still leaning into me, and let my arm stay where it is.

  Whatever this is, whatever name someone else might try to give it, it has always felt natural to us.

  So I sit there with him a little longer, letting the world wait.

  Eventually his breathing settles fully and the tension drains from his shoulders. He straightens a little and gives a small nod in my direction. Not formal. Just enough to be understood.

  I give him a faint smile, we don’t talk about it.

  Without saying anything, we clear our trays and make our way back toward our room so he can grab his staff. From there we head straight for the training hall. The halls are busier now, filled with the sound of feet on wood and distant voices echoing through the stone. None of it really registers.

  The training hall is already alive when we arrive. Students are scattered across the space, some sparring, some running solo forms, others working against dummies that creak and repair themselves between strikes. The air smells faintly of sweat and polished wood.

  At the far end of the hall, two boys are sparring hard enough that I stop for a second just to watch. Their staffs crack together over and over, coming apart and slamming back in with almost no pause. It is fast. Violent. Impressive. They move like a storm tearing across open ground. A crowd of younger students has gathered nearby, watching with wide eyes.

  I recognize them, vaguely, but I don’t remember their names.

  Kai doesn’t look that way at all.

  We head for our usual training room and step inside. The space is familiar, quiet compared to the main hall. We set our staffs aside and begin to stretch. I’ve already done most of mine this morning, but it never hurts to do more. Muscles loosen. Joints settle.

  When we are ready, we turn to face each other.

  As always, we extend our right arms and press our palms together.

  Something in my chest eases immediately. Probably just habit. Ritual has a way of doing that.

  Then we move.

  We come together in a rush, wood cracking against wood, bare feet scuffing across the floor. Kai is faster than usual, more aggressive. He pushes in where he would normally probe. Presses where he would normally wait. There is heat in his movements, a sharp edge that has not been there for days.

  I know what it is.

  He isn’t angry at me, but he has anger to burn off. Sadness too. So I let him. I meet him head on and match his pace. Staff strikes blur together. The room fills with the sound of impact and breath and movement.

  We push each other hard.

  Eventually his rhythm starts to fray. A step too far. A strike that overextends. Emotion creeping into places where precision should be.

  I call for a stop.

  He doesn’t hear me.

  I call it again, louder.

  Still nothing.

  “Stop!”

  The word snaps out of me sharp enough that it finally breaks through. He backs off, chest heaving, face flushed. He plants the butt of his staff against the floor and stands there, breathing hard, eyes fixed on me.

  He is a little shorter than me and a bit thinner, not by much. Compact. Wiry. Every muscle defined from years of work and repetition. Brown almond shaped eyes. Short black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

  As I watch him, still catching his breath, a single tear slips free and tracks down his left cheek. Then another follows from the right.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I step forward and wrap my arms around him.

  It’s the first time we have hugged like this since we were little kids. He stiffens for a second, then lets his forehead rest against my shoulder. His arms stay at his sides. I hold him anyway. Tight enough that he knows I am here. That he does not have to hold it in. That it is all right to grieve. I know how close he was to his grandmother.

  “I missed you too,” I say quietly. He nods once against my shoulder.

  After a moment, he pulls back, wiping his snotty nose against my shoulder on purpose. Then he hops back out of reach, laughter breaking through like a release.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  He spins his staff once, light on his feet again.

  “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up and get to class.”

  I pick up my staff and follow him out of the room, the day moving forward again.