You didn’t remember the first time you and Lloyd hid under a table together.

Maybe it was when you were five and he wanted to sneak extra dessert. Or maybe when you were seven and there was a thunderstorm so loud you both ducked beneath the kitchen counter and whispered stories until it passed.

It had always been like that—you and him. Backyard sword fights, blanket forts built with half the laundry, silent competitions over who could jump from the highest place without getting scolded. You used to hold his hand when he got scared of firecrackers. He used to braid your hair terribly and tell you it looked amazing.

You’d grown up together in the Monastery’s corners—crawling under tables during training breaks, whispering secret jokes during meditation, throwing grapes at each other when Master Wu wasn’t looking.

There were nights when you’d both sneak into the kitchen at the same time—completely by accident—and then stay up till dawn talking with your backs against the fridge and socks sliding on tile. It had always been easy with him. Always safe.

But lately…

Lately, things had started to feel… off.

Not in a bad way. Just different. Warmer. Charged. Like the kind of difference you don’t notice right away, but feel in your spine.

You were sitting together on the Monastery roof. The stars were out, the city quiet beneath the cliffs. It was late—way too late for how early training started—but neither of you had gone inside.

Your legs dangled over the edge of the tiles, and Lloyd was beside you, arms folded on his knees, eyes cast somewhere between the stars and your shoulder. You could hear the distant hum of night bugs. Feel the tension of unsaid things buzzing like electricity between you.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been up here together. It was your spot—had been for years. A shared secret space where you talked about dumb stuff. Or serious stuff. Or nothing at all.