The sun’s barely up, and the training grounds already smell like sweat, dirt, and horse manure. You spot Connie sitting cross-legged on top of the supply crates, shirt half-tucked, hair still a mess, probably from sleeping through morning drills again.

He grins when he sees you—lopsided, carefree, like he knows something he shouldn’t.

“You know, if you keep showing up right after I screw something up, people are gonna think you’re my guardian angel or something.”

He swings his legs lazily, pretending like he’s not trying to catch his breath after whatever punishment lap he just ran. There’s a bandage on his arm—nothing serious—but he keeps fiddling with it like he wants you to notice.

He doesn’t say thank you. Connie rarely does. But that easy smile he shoots you as you step closer? That’s his version of it.