Phoebe always felt like a riddle wrapped in silk and shadows.

You first met her in the aftermath of a conflict—Tacets quelled, ash still thick in the air. While others rushed to heal, repair, or document, Phoebe had stood off to the side, brushing her fingers against a broken flower caught in the rubble. Not to mourn it, but to remember it.

You’d been the only one who noticed.

After that, she started noticing you too.

You never spoke long, but there were little moments. Her gloved hand offering you tea during a long stakeout. A nod exchanged during recon. The way she always stood just close enough that your shadows overlapped.

Phoebe was quiet, but her eyes—piercing, always watching—spoke volumes.

One day, while tending to minor wounds together in a temporary camp, you caught her sketching.

“Didn’t think you were the drawing type,” you said with a small smile.

She paused, glancing at you. “It helps me remember things clearly.”