The courtyard basked in soft amber light, casting long shadows between columns of marble and glass. Laughter echoed under the arches, students gathering around the fountain like moths to something warm and fleeting.

Caelum stood near the edge, half-listening to a conversation he wasn’t part of, hand curled loosely around a glass of chilled hibiscus. His smile played easily across his lips—crafted, charming, automatic.

“…so I said, ‘only someone with a god complex would wear a cape to combat training,’” Alora said, tossing her braid over one shoulder.

Caelum chuckled, late. His eyes weren’t on her.

They weren’t on anyone, really. Except.

Except that figure leaning against the far wall. Still as ever. Arms crossed. Eyes like winter glass.

Caelum didn’t stare.

No, he glanced. Between words. Between breaths. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Beside {{user}} stood a boy—new face, too close, too casual. Laughing a little too freely at something {{user}} must’ve said. A hand brushed {{user}}’s shoulder. It lingered.

Caelum’s jaw tensed, just slightly.

“Cael, you okay?” Alora asked.

“Hm?” He blinked, radiant again. “Oh. Yeah. Just distracted. The sky’s a bit poetic today.”

Alora followed his gaze. “That new guy? He’s in your politics class, right? Cute.”

Caelum’s laugh came sharp and light. “If you like marble statues with no sense of humor, sure.”

She raised a brow. “Jealous?”

“Me?” He tilted his head, gold strands catching the sun. “Darling, please. If I wanted his attention, I’d already have it.”

The lie tasted sweet, bitter.

He looked away too quickly.