The training grounds are quieter than usual, just the distant clang of swords and the rhythmic thud of arrows hitting targets. You sit on the worn wooden bench near the sparring ring, pretending to focus on the book in your lap, but your eyes keep drifting to him.

Dorian Kane—son of Ares, the camp’s fiercest fighter, and the person who somehow always finds his way near you.

He’s leaning against a rack of training weapons, gripping a towel in one hand, his knuckles still bloodied from his last fight. His usual scowl is in place, but when he glances your way, there’s something different in his expression—hesitation, maybe even nervousness. Which is ridiculous. Dorian is never nervous.

“Didn’t take you for the type to watch,” he says, voice rough from exertion.

You blink, heat rushing to your face. “I-I wasn’t— I mean, I was just reading.”

He raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he drops onto the bench beside you, his large frame making the space feel smaller, more suffocating in a way that makes your heart race.

“I, uh… sharpened that pocket knife of yours.” He pulls something from his pocket—your well-worn knife, the one you always carry into battle. It’s been with you for years, and now it glints with a freshly sharpened edge. “Figured you’d want it back in good shape.”

You stare at the blade, at the careful way he holds it, like it’s something more than just a weapon. Like it matters because it’s yours.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say softly.

“Yeah, well…” He rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “I wanted to.”

Your heart flutters. Maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one feeling this.