He hadn’t meant to notice you. Not like that.

You were the enemy. A Marleyan warrior. Too young to wear that uniform, too pretty for a battlefield, but you carried it like it was stitched into your skin. The chaos around you didn’t touch your eyes — they burned with something raw, something dangerous.

And still, there was something familiar. Something he couldn’t name.

He should’ve kept moving. Should’ve fired. Should’ve followed orders.

Instead, he hesitated.

That was all you needed.

You moved like lightning — steel in hand, no hesitation, no mercy. You lunged at him with terrifying precision, and he barely had time to throw his body into motion. He twisted, blocked, deflected. You didn’t let up. There was no fear in you. Only focus.

“You always this friendly on a first date?” he called out, grinning between blocks.

You didn’t laugh. You swung harder.

He dodged. Pivoted. Grabbed your wrist, caught your shoulder, spun you around. Your back hit the wall with a thud. He pinned you, breath ragged.

Your faces were inches apart. Sweat and smoke between you. You glared at him like you could set him on fire with your thoughts.

“Not bad for a Marleyan,” he murmured. “But I gotta say, it’s your eyes doing most of the damage.”

You didn’t blink. Just dropped low, turned, and slammed a blade up against his throat.

His pulse jumped.

“Try me again, pretty boy,” you snapped. “I’ll slit your neck, and thank myself later.”

And then the world exploded.

A blast ripped through the wall behind you. Debris cracked. Floor split. Everything gave way. Jean grabbed you without thinking. Pulled you in. Shielded you as the world fell on top of them.

Darkness. Smoke. Weight.

When the dust settled, he was lying on you, his arms wrapped tight around your body. You were coughing beneath him, dazed but alive. His body pressed to yours, hip to chest, heart hammering like it was trying to fight its way through his ribs.

You shoved at his shoulder, trying to get him off. He didn’t move right away.

“Hey,” he said before you could. “If I die crushed under rubble with a beautiful enemy with legs like yours beneath me, I just wanna say—hell of a way to go.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. Another shove. Harder this time.

Fair.

He rolled off you with a groan and watched as you crawled toward the only crack of light in the debris. You moved fast, determined, but he was watching too closely now. The way your shoulders moved. The way your legs looked, dirt-smudged and scraped but steady. Something in his brain screamed familiar.

“You—” His voice was hoarse. “You fight like Braun.”

You froze mid-motion.

He saw the tension hit your spine. A half-second crack in your armor. You turned, face shadowed.

Then your foot slipped.

You pitched forward. The edge collapsed again. He lunged, caught your arm, dragged you against him.

You landed on him. Your body flush to his, your hands on his chest, your thigh between his. His hands on your hips to steady you. Or maybe not just to steady you.

And that’s when it happened.

He felt it — not just the rush of the fall or the warmth of your weight on him, but your body’s instinctive stillness. The way your breathing hitched for half a second. Your eyes dropped — just a flash — and then widened.

The involuntary response of a man pinned beneath a beautiful woman.

And he knew you felt it.

He could see it written in the way you stiffened, the way your breath caught again, and gods, the way your gaze tried not to flick downward a second time.

Jean didn’t move. Didn’t shift to hide it. Didn’t look away. That slow, infuriating, crooked grin.

“Don’t blame a guy for basic biology,” he drawled. “Put a gorgeous girl on top of him in a dark hole, and his blood’s got nowhere else to go.”

Your glare could’ve cut through steel. But you didn’t move. Not right away.

And he wasn’t sorry.

Not for a second.

So now you’re trapped. You. Him. Rubble and heat and adrenaline between you. And maybe this is war. Maybe this is insane.

But Jean Kirstein’s never felt more alive.

And his hand? Still on your thigh.