Steven’s POV
By the time Aqua and I made it back to the house, the sun had already started leaning lower in the sky.
The whole day still felt a little unreal in the best way.
The lake. Dylan’s tail. Aqua’s tail. Me yelling “Cannonball!” like an idiot and then nearly losing my mind underwater because my girlfriend could apparently make me breathe with one kiss.
So, obviously, a normal day.
I shut the back door behind us and toed off my shoes while Aqua set the basket down on the kitchen counter with the same careful grace she seemed to do everything with. The house felt warm from the late light, quiet in that easy way it only did when nothing had gone wrong for several hours.
That alone felt like a luxury lately.
Aqua turned toward me, still faintly smiling.
“I enjoyed today.”
I glanced at her while I pulled my shirt off over my head and draped it over the back of one of the chairs to deal with later.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I did too.”
Aqua’s brows lifted slightly.
“You guess?”
I looked at her.
Then, because there was no point pretending too hard, I let out a small breath through my nose and admitted, “Okay. Fine. I really did.”
That made her smile widen.
“It went well.”
“It did,” I said, leaning one hip against the counter. “Dylan smiled, like, twice. I think that counts as a major event.”
Aqua laughed.
“It was nice.”
“Yeah.” I shook my head a little, still half amazed by it. “Still weird seeing him in the water, though.”
Aqua’s expression turned amused.
“You looked deeply offended that he turned out to be part merman.”
“I was not offended.”
“You were shocked.”
“That too.”
Aqua moved a little closer, her voice gentler now.
“I was glad,” she said, “that the day ended the way it did.”
I knew what she meant.
Not just the lake.
Not just Dylan.
The apology. The lightness. The fact that things hadn’t stayed broken after the field.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Me too.”
For a second we just stood there in the kitchen with the quiet settling around us again.
Then Aqua glanced toward the phone on the counter.
“It was nice that Dylan gave you his number.”
I looked at her.
“Yeah,” I said. “That feels more official than I was prepared for.”
Aqua’s mouth curved.
“I think that is because he is very official.”
I snorted.
“That sounds painfully true.”
I was just about to say something else when the phone buzzed.
Both of us looked down at it.
A text.
From Dylan.
Dylan: Training resumes tomorrow. 9 a.m.
I stared at it for a second.
Then groaned.
Aqua laughed.
“That is very him.”
“That is aggressively him,” I muttered. “No greeting. No hope you got home safely. No try not to drown before morning.”
Aqua folded her arms lightly.
“I think the fact that he texted at all is a good sign.”
I looked at her.
“You would.”
Aqua smiled in that innocent way that meant she knew she was right.
Then she tilted her head slightly.
“You are ready, though.”
It wasn’t really a question.
I looked back at the phone.
The old version of me—the one from before the apology, before the lake, before Dylan stopped feeling like a wall with opinions—probably would have groaned harder. Probably would have spent the rest of the evening dreading it.
Now?
Now it felt different.
Still tiring.
Still probably painful.
But different.
“Yeah,” I said after a second. “I think I am too.”
Aqua’s expression softened.
“I think tomorrow will go better.”
I glanced at her.
“You say that like you know.”
“I say that,” she replied gently, “because you are no longer trying to fight everything at once.”
That landed harder than I expected.
Because she was right.
Or at least… more right than I wanted to admit.
I slid the phone back onto the counter and let out a slow breath.
“Well,” I said, “that’s encouraging and annoyingly wise.”
Aqua smiled.
“I know.”
Somehow, she always did.
I stepped closer and kissed her lightly once, just because I wanted to. Because the day had been good. Because she had been right again. Because sometimes I still needed the reminder that someone this good was real and standing in my kitchen.
When I pulled back, Aqua’s cheeks pinked just a little.
“Go easy on me,” I murmured.
She blinked.
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow, apparently, I return to suffering.”
Aqua laughed.
“I believe in you.”
“Thanks for the overwhelming support.”
“You are welcome.”
“Ugh.”
That only made her laugh more.
And somehow, in the warmth of the kitchen and the fading gold of the evening, with Dylan’s absurdly concise text still sitting on the counter between us like an official summons back to reality, I found I didn’t mind tomorrow nearly as much as I thought I would.
---
The next morning, I packed the cooler before Dylan arrived.
That alone felt like progress.
Not because it was hard. Just because the old me probably would’ve shown up half-awake and underprepared, hoping attitude could cover what planning didn’t. This time I filled the small ice cooler with bottled water, a few extra towels, and one of the reusable cold packs Aqua had started keeping in the freezer.
Then I carried it out to the training field and set it near the bench under the shade structure.
The clearing looked the same as always.
Open.
Shielded.
Waiting.
But it didn’t feel the same.
Or maybe I didn’t.
I rolled my shoulders once, flexed my hands, and tried to settle into my body before Dylan got there. Morning air still held a little coolness under the sun, just enough to keep the field from feeling too harsh yet. The grass was damp near the edges, dark where the shade had kept the dew from drying. A few birds called from the trees beyond the barrier, their voices too normal for a place where I had nearly lost control days ago.
My gaze drifted toward the far side of the field.
The place where Dylan had braced against my fire.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
My stomach tightened.
Then my fingers brushed the necklace before I could stop them.
The metal sat cool against my chest.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
I dropped my hand before I could think about it for too long.
Footsteps sounded along the path a minute later.
Right on time.
Because apparently punctuality was still one of Dylan Worth’s most aggressive personality traits.
Dylan came through the back opening with his usual calm, dark clothes neat, sleeves already rolled once like he had no intention of wasting time with formality.
His eyes flicked toward the cooler first.
Then to me.
“You brought supplies.”
I looked at him.
There was no clear emotion in the words.
Which somehow made me want to defend myself immediately anyway.
“It’s called preparation,” I said. “I’m trying something new.”
For half a second, his expression looked dangerously close to entertained.
“Good.”
I stared at him.
Then pointed toward the cooler.
“Water. Towels. Cold packs.”
Dylan glanced toward it again and gave one small nod.
“Useful.”
That was about as enthusiastic as I was likely to get from him before nine in the morning.
Fair enough.
He stepped farther into the clearing and looked around once, already switching into trainer mode.
“No fire today,” he said.
My hand paused near my side.
“Because of last time?”
“Because control starts before power,” he said. “If your body panics, your aura will follow.”
That was annoyingly reasonable.
Which made it worse.
I shifted my weight.
“So we’re doing boring stuff.”
“We’re doing necessary stuff.”
“Those sound suspiciously similar.”
“They often are.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
Apparently that was the entire argument.
Dylan moved to the center of the field and gestured once.
“Today we’re working on stance repetition and muscle memory,” he said. “You’ve been relying too much on instinct when pressure hits. I want your body responding correctly before frustration gets a vote.”
I frowned.
“That sounds rude.”
“It’s true.”
“Even ruder.”
Dylan ignored that with impressive professionalism.
“You’re quick on your feet,” he continued. “That much is obvious. Salvatores usually are. But speed means very little if your stance falls apart every time you have to change direction.”
I folded my arms.
“I’m a great dodger.”
Dylan looked at me for one beat too long.
“We’ll see.”
That immediately made me want to prove him wrong in the most childish way possible.
Which, based on the slight narrowing of his eyes, he probably already knew.
Unbelievable.
He gestured again.
“Start with your base stance.”
I stepped into position.
Dylan circled slowly once, eyes taking in my feet, knees, shoulders, arms.
Then he said, “Better.”
I blinked.
That was it.
No insult. No correction buried inside it. Just one word.
Better.
And stupidly enough, it landed.
He saw my face change and added, “Don’t look so surprised.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re not usually this generous.”
“I’m not being generous,” Dylan said. “You’re actually standing correctly.”
That was somehow more irritating and more satisfying at the same time.
I muttered something under my breath and reset my shoulders.
Dylan ignored the muttering too.
“Again.”
So I did.
Again.
And again.
For the first twenty minutes, the whole thing felt deceptively simple.
Base stance.
Shift.
Reset.
Pivot.
Reset again.
Step back.
Turn.
Hold.
He kept making me repeat the same patterns until I was convinced he’d decided boredom counted as a combat technique.
At one point, after my fourth reset in the same position, I looked at him and said, “You know, for somebody who claims this is training, you’re really doing a lot of standing around while I suffer.”
Dylan didn’t even blink.
“I’m watching you suffer incorrectly.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“It should be.”
I shot him a look and reset my stance again.
The thing that made it annoying was that he was right.
Every time I got lazy with my footing, he saw it. Every time I let my shoulders rise too soon, he saw that too. Every time I tried to cut a corner because I thought I’d already proven I understood the movement, he made me do it again until my body stopped trying to argue and started listening.
The sun climbed a little higher while we worked. Heat began to settle over the back of my neck. The grass dragged against my shoes with every reset, and my calves started burning in a way that felt too specific to ignore.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized something I didn’t especially want to admit.
This was working.
Not in the flashy, immediate way I always wanted things to work.
Not in the look what I can do now way.
In the slower way.
The more irritating way.
The way where something repeated often enough finally stopped feeling awkward and started feeling natural.
Dylan stepped closer and gestured toward my feet.
“Again. This time don’t overstep when you shift left.”
“I’m not overstepping.”
“You are.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then, because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating me, I did it again and immediately felt the exact problem he’d been talking about.
I stopped.
A breath moved through Dylan that might have been a laugh if he had less self-control.
“You were saying?”
I exhaled hard through my nose.
“You know,” I said, “there are times I really don’t like you.”
“That’s not new.”
“Wow.”
He folded his arms.
“Again.”
So I went again.
By the time he finally shifted the drill into live movement instead of just repeated stance work, my legs were already starting to feel it.
“Good,” Dylan said.
I blinked at him.
“That’s a weird response to my pain.”
“It means your body is tired enough to stop faking control.”
“That somehow sounded insulting.”
“It was meant to.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He ignored that too.
Then he moved a few steps back and said, “Now I want to see if you’re actually as good at dodging as you think you are.”
I straightened a little.
“I told you. I’m a great dodger.”
Dylan tilted his head.
“We’ll see.”
That did it.
The competitive part of me sat up so fast it may as well have kicked in a door.
“Okay,” I said, rolling my shoulders. “You know what? Fine. Let’s do this.”
Dylan didn’t say anything dramatic.
Didn’t count down.
Didn’t explain.
He just moved.
Fast.
I shifted right on instinct, barely clearing the path of his first strike, which wasn’t meant to hit me hard so much as force movement. I recovered, pivoted, and had just enough time to feel smug about it before he came in from the other side.
I ducked.
Too slow.
His hand clipped my shoulder lightly and sent me stumbling half a step.
“Tag,” he said.
I looked at him in offense.
“Did you just tag me?”
“You’re welcome to dodge better.”
“Oh, that is rude.”
“Focus.”
Then he came at me again.
After that, it stopped feeling like drills and started feeling like a challenge.
Not a fight.
Not even sparring, really.
Just Dylan driving me harder and harder through change-of-direction, forced resets, fast pivots, short bursts, and angle correction until the only thing my brain had room for was movement.
Left.
Right.
Duck.
Shift.
Turn.
Recover.
Again.
There was no fire involved this time.
No powers.
No big flashy release to hide behind.
Just my body.
My balance.
My reactions.
My ego.
Which, unfortunately, Dylan seemed perfectly capable of targeting without ever raising his voice.
He’d move in and say, “Too slow.”
I’d correct it.
Then he’d step in tighter, make me redirect, and say, “Too obvious.”
Then I’d get it right twice in a row and he’d say, “Better.”
Which somehow hit harder than a full speech would’ve.
At one point I slipped past his reach cleanly enough that he had to turn sharper to catch me again.
I grinned.
“Missed me.”
Dylan came at me again without changing expression.
“Talk less.”
“I think you’re just upset I’m good at this.”
He moved faster.
I dodged left, twisted out of range, and nearly laughed from the rush of getting it right.
“Oh, you’re definitely upset.”
That was when he changed rhythm completely and clipped me lightly at the ribs before I could recover.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Okay. That one was cheap.”
“That one was deserved.”
“You sound very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“That was a lie.”
His expression stayed flat, but the edge of it cracked.
Not enough for anyone else to catch.
Enough for me.
By the time we finally stopped, both of us were breathing harder.
I bent forward with my hands on my knees, sucking in air while sweat ran down my neck and my shirt clung uncomfortably across my back. My thighs burned. My shoulders ached. Even my ribs had started filing complaints.
Dylan looked less wrecked than I felt, which was deeply offensive, but even he was breathing a little heavier now.
I lifted one hand without straightening all the way.
“Well?”
Dylan glanced at me.
“Well what?”
“I believe I was owed acknowledgment.”
“You owed yourself acknowledgment.”
I pointed vaguely at him from my bent-over position.
“Semantics.”
He let that sit for a second longer than necessary.
Then:
“You are a good dodger.”
I looked up immediately.
He said it so flatly that somebody else would’ve missed the weight of it.
I didn’t.
I straightened just enough to grin at him.
“See?”
Dylan took the water bottle I tossed him from the cooler and twisted the cap loose.
“I said good. Not impossible to hit.”
I grabbed one for myself and opened it too fast.
“That still counts as a win.”
“It counts as being right.”
“Which is a win.”
Dylan took a drink.
I watched him over the bottle.
He looked less rigid than usual. Not open exactly. Just… not quite locked up the way he often was at the start of training.
Maybe I did too.
We stood there in the shade near the bench for a minute, both of us drinking and breathing and coming down from the workout. The cold water hit my stomach hard enough to make me realize how hot I’d gotten. Sweat cooled along my spine, and the breeze moving through the field suddenly felt like the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Then, because the question came out before I had time to sand the edges off it, I said, “Do you always train this hard, or are you just punishing me?”
Dylan lowered the bottle slightly.
His expression didn’t really change.
“This is normal.”
I frowned.
“For you?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
He drank again like that answer was not even remotely alarming.
I straightened fully now, still a little out of breath.
“Wait. Seriously?”
Dylan looked at me.
“I was trained hard early,” he said. “It never really stopped.”
He said it in the same tone somebody else might use to comment on the weather.
No self-pity.
No dramatic pause.
No look at me, my life is tragic.
Just fact.
And that somehow made it land harder.
I looked at him a little differently after that.
Not because I suddenly understood everything about him.
I didn’t.
But because something in that answer shifted the shape of him in my head.
Dylan had always felt controlled.
Capable.
Disciplined in a way that made me feel sloppy just standing next to him.
But now, for the first time, I really felt the cost of that.
I looked down at my water bottle, then back at him.
“So…” I said slowly, “do you ever have time for fun?”
Dylan’s brows moved by maybe half an inch.
“Fun.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You know. Enjoyment. Rest. A personality outside of suffering.”
For half a second, he looked almost confused by the concept.
“Not really,” he said.
I stared at him.
Then let out a breath through my nose.
“Wow.”
Dylan glanced at me.
“What?”
“That’s kind of a bummer.”
The words came out more honestly than I meant them to.
Not mocking.
Not really joking either.
Just… true.
Something about that seemed to catch him off guard more than the question had.
His eyes shifted to me, steadier now.
Maybe he wasn’t used to people saying that part out loud.
I shrugged one shoulder.
“I mean, I complain about your training methods a lot, but at least I get to go home and be dramatic about it.”
That did it.
Dylan actually laughed.
Not a big laugh.
Not loud.
Just a short, real one under his breath.
But it was there.
I froze.
Completely.
Dylan looked at me and immediately seemed to realize why.
“What?”
I stared at him.
“Was that a laugh?”
His face went neutral again so fast it was honestly impressive.
“No.”
I pointed at him.
“That was absolutely a laugh.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You literally just did it.”
Dylan lifted his bottle again.
“You’re dehydrated.”
I stood there for half a second longer, still mildly stunned.
Then I let out a laugh of my own.
“Wow. Okay. Good to know you do have one.”
“One what?”
“A sense of humor.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but I heard it.”
Dylan gave me a look that somehow managed to be both flat and slightly resigned at the same time.
Then he took another drink.
We fell quiet again after that, but it wasn’t the stiff kind of quiet from before.
Not the old one.
This one sat easier.
Like the air had changed just enough that neither of us had to work so hard at standing in it.
I looked out over the edge of the field, toward the path leading back to the house, then back at him.
“Okay,” I said, because apparently my mouth was still moving on its own today. “Hypothetically speaking… if I asked you right now to go easy on me from now on, what would you say?”
Dylan didn’t even hesitate.
“No.”
I laughed immediately.
“That fast?”
“Yes.”
“That is incredibly rude.”
“That is incredibly necessary.”
I shook my head, still smiling despite myself.
Unbelievable.
Then, because I was tired and off-balance in a different way now, and because the thought slipped in before I could stop it, I looked at him and said, “You know… I think you might actually be a little less awful than I originally thought.”
Dylan capped his bottle and looked at me.
“That’s a glowing review.”
“It’s the best you’re getting today.”
“Then I’ll treasure it.”
I snorted.
“That sounded fake.”
“It was.”
And there it was again—that almost-laugh under the words, that slight shift in him that probably would’ve meant nothing to anyone else and somehow didn’t mean nothing to me at all.
I looked away first, mostly because something in my chest had gone unexpectedly warm and I didn’t know what to do with that yet.
So I took another drink instead.
The field had gone quiet around us.
No Aqua. No audience. No one else to bridge the space.
Just me, Dylan, the empty bottles cooling in the shade, and the strange realization settling in little by little that training didn’t feel quite so lonely anymore.
That was new.
Weirdly new.
And I wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened.
Maybe at the lake.
Maybe during the apology.
Maybe sometime this morning between Again and You are a good dodger.
Or maybe friendships just started like that sometimes—quietly, in the middle of being tired, without anybody announcing them first.
Dylan pushed off the bench a second later.
“We’re not done.”
I groaned.
“There he is.”
His eyes narrowed with something almost amused.
“Five more rounds.”
“That is cruelty.”
“That is training.”
I dragged a hand down my face, then stepped back toward the center of the field anyway.
Still sore.
Still tired.
Still definitely being punished for every decision I had ever made.
Sweat cooled along the back of my neck. My legs still ached. Dylan stood across from me with that same impossible calm, but he didn’t feel like a wall anymore.
He felt like someone waiting for me to catch up.
And maybe that was what the beginning of something solid felt like.
Not dramatic.
Not instant.
Just there.
And for once, I didn’t mind that at all.