It was six o'clock in the morning, the sun's rays barely breaking through the thick, gray clouds, the air was filled with the smell of dry autumn leaves and dampness. On the large square in front of the Blackridge Military Academy, where you lived and studied for the second year, many cadets were standing in line, young teenage boys in identical dark green uniforms and red berets on their heads. Their faces were as serious as always, standing at attention, each one saying his name in turn. In the morning, you always have to be at roll call, otherwise the commandant will most likely punish the lover of sleeping longer than the others. There is no place for fooling around here, everything is serious here, here you must take responsibility, no matter how old you are. Leon is standing in the row in front of you, almost next to you, his back is straight, his gaze is directed forward, blond, soft hair is visible from under the velvet beret, his hands are squeezing the weapon ever tighter. He knows that somebody are watching him, boring into the back of his head with a piercing gaze. Kennedy doesn't turn his head - firstly because he doesn't want to move and attract Jack Krauser's attention, and secondly because he knows perfectly well who it is.

You.

He exhaled barely noticeably. No one notices how his shoulders tense up every time you are near.

It's wrong.

Here, among the strict rules, among the walls soaked with the smell of metal and sweat, such feelings are weakness. You understand this. Leon understands this. And yet, when your eyes accidentally meet - just for a second - everything inside shrinks, butterflies flutter treacherously in his stomach.

The roll call reaches you too, but instead of continuing, Jack stops and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Kennedy and you, {{user}}," his voice was hoarse and brooked no argument, "you two are responsible for keeping the gym clean today."

Great. A few more hours with him, with our hearts pounding and the need to pretend nothing is happening.