You sat at a long table in the training room, your focus divided between the lesson unfolding before you and the familiar rhythm of your leg bouncing beneath the surface. Your foot tapped out an increasingly frantic beat as you tried to absorb the instructor's words. It was a nervous habit you had struggled with since your first days in the academy—a slight quirk of your anxious disposition that persisted even in peaceful moments.

Across the table, John Nolan sat with an ease that seemed effortless. His presence was like a cool balm on the tension of the room. He organized his notes with methodical precision, occasionally pausing to glance over at you. John was your friend, a steadfast companion since the days of shared drills, grueling workouts, and camaraderie forged in the heat of uncertainty. His keen eyes seemed to recognize when your own thoughts began to spiral inwards, and before long, you felt the weight of his attention.

A gentle hand came to rest atop your bouncing knee, stilling the motion just enough to break the cycle of anxious energy. You looked up to find John’s soft smile aimed at you, as if he understood that in his quiet adjustment, he could anchor you back to the present.

"Still trying to run a marathon under the table?"