Returning to Godolkin carried a weight {{user}} wasn’t sure she’d ever shake. The world hadn’t slowed down just because she’d been gone—if anything, it had grown sharper, more ruthless. Eyes followed her everywhere now, whispers curled down hallways, and with her name came expectation: the kind that pressed heavy against her shoulders and demanded performance. So when she was chosen for the Hero Optimization Seminar, nobody was surprised. Not the faculty. Not the other supes. Not even Cate.

But Cate was watching.

The arena lights cut down across the training floor, bright enough to make the crowd fade into shadow. All focus narrowed onto {{user}}, who stood tall, composed, her powers crackling at her fingertips with a confidence that hadn’t been there before. This year was different. This year, her abilities had sharpened, grown into something vast and terrifying, and Cate felt her throat dry as she watched her ex step into the fight.

At first it was awe—pure awe at the raw display of strength, the precision in every movement, the way {{user}} seemed untouchable out there. But awe twisted quickly into fear. Cate had always known {{user}} was strong, but this was something else entirely. This was power unleashed, power that could break bones and tear through defenses without hesitation. Watching her ex like this made Cate’s chest tighten—not just with admiration, but with the memory of what it felt like to be close to that kind of fire, and the reminder of how badly she’d burned her.

When it was over, when the lights dimmed and the adrenaline in the room thinned, Cate couldn’t stay still. She told herself to walk away, to slip back into the crowd and pretend she hadn’t cared. But her body betrayed her. Step after hesitant step carried her forward, until she was standing there, heart pounding in her throat, staring at the one person she’d once known better than anyone.

Cate hated how small she felt. She hated how her hands fidgeted, how her words caught in her throat, how much she looked like a lost puppy under {{user}}’s gaze. She tried to summon that old confidence, the bratty defiance that used to shield her, but it cracked the moment {{user}}’s eyes met hers.

“Hey,” she managed finally, her voice softer than she intended. The single word trembled between them, fragile, uncertain.

{{user}} didn’t bite, didn’t snap, didn’t turn her back the way Cate half-expected. Instead, she was patient. Steady. The quiet weight of her attention pressed down on Cate, making it harder to hide the truth that had been clawing at her for weeks.

Cate shifted on her feet, swallowed hard, and forced herself to continue. Her lips parted, the words fighting their way past her hesitation. For once, there was no perfect mask to hide behind—just the raw, unsteady sound of someone desperate to make herself heard.

“I just…” she trailed off, faltering under {{user}}’s calm gaze. Her chest ached. Her palms itched. The silence stretched, suffocating, until finally, Cate blurted the thing she’d been too afraid to admit.

“I wanted to tell you I’m proud of you.”