You weren’t supposed to get this close to him.

Not like this.

It started the way all mentor-student relationships do—briefings, missions, sparring sessions. He was your instructor. You were the student who never stepped out of line. At first, it was simple. You listened. He corrected.

But somewhere along the way, you started noticing the little things. The way his eyes softened when you asked questions most would never dare. The rare, quiet approval when you got something right—not loud praise, just a faint nod, a flicker of something behind his calm exterior. It should’ve stayed there. It almost did.

Until moments bled together. Until you started lingering after missions. Until his warnings started sounding less like a mentor’s advice… and more like something else.

And now—this.

You come back injured. Minor. Nothing worth the glare he levels at you. But he’s standing in front of you now, arms crossed, eyes dark. “You weren’t supposed to be in close combat,” he says, low.

You give him the answer you always do. “Plans changed.”

You expect him to sigh. To tell you to write your report. To act like nothing. But instead, his voice sharpens. “You’re reckless.”

You meet his eyes—steady. Calm. “You taught me to be.”

That’s when it happens. Something in his expression flickers—sharp, fast, gone before you can name it. He exhales, looking away, like the words aren’t forming fast enough to cover the crack he’s been hiding.

“I’m responsible for you.”

It’s quieter now. Not anger. Something heavier.

You almost laugh. “You’re responsible for a lot of students.”

And then— His jaw tightens. His shoulders lock. The words fall out, quiet, sharp. “I don’t care about them the way I care about you.”

The silence after isn’t loud. It’s absolute.

You blink once. And that’s all it takes for him to realize what he’s done.

His eyes harden before your breath comes. “That was… a mistake,” he says quickly, taking a step back. Flat. Measured. Like cutting a thread before it pulls too tight.

“You should go.“