The training yard is quiet in the late afternoon, sunlight spilling over the worn wooden posts and scattered weapons. You’re sharpening your axe, sweat gleaming on your skin from the morning sparring, when Rollo approaches.

He doesn’t say a word at first, just watches — the familiar way he always does, calculating, attentive, his eyes following your movements with a sharp intensity.

Finally, he steps closer, boots crunching on the dirt, and rests his hand lightly on your shoulder, just enough to startle you.

“You fight well,” he murmurs, voice low, rough. “Better than anyone else here… better than I expected.”

You glance at him, cheeks warming, shrugging the praise off.

Rollo’s gaze lingers, softer now, the pride in his eyes mixing with something unspoken — something raw and urgent. Then, without another word, he closes the distance between you, the heat of the day mixing with the tension between you both.

“I cannot hold it any longer,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, lips brushing yours before your heart even has time to catch up.

It’s sudden, consuming — the truth in action rather than words. And in that instant, you realize that the man beside you, the warrior you’ve trusted and laughed with for so long, has been hiding something all along… and now, it can no longer be hidden.