The practice room was empty by design.
No observers.
No faculty.
No applause waiting at the end.
Just fluorescent lights humming overhead and the faint echo of footsteps from somewhere far down the hall—reminders that the world still existed beyond these walls.
Aria preferred it this way.
She stood at the podium, notes laid out in precise order, shoulders squared, voice steady as she ran through her opening statement for the third time. Each word landed cleanly. Controlled. Measured.
Lucas sat at the long table opposite her, jacket off, sleeves rolled, hands folded loosely in front of him. He didn't interrupt. Didn't challenge.
That alone was unsettling.
"—and therefore, the prosecution's claim fails under its own contradictions," Aria concluded.
Silence followed.
Not evaluative.
Not critical.
Just quiet.
Lucas didn't clap. Didn't nod. He simply watched her.
Aria shifted her weight. "You're supposed to respond."
"I know."
"Then why aren't you?"
He leaned back slightly. "Because you're not done."
"I finished the argument."
"You finished the words," Lucas said. "Not the delivery."
Her jaw tightened. "Be specific."
"You're rushing the ending."
"I'm being efficient."
"No," he corrected calmly. "You're bracing."
That made her hands still.
She glanced down at them without meaning to.
Trembling.
Barely perceptible—but there.
Aria curled her fingers into fists, willing the movement to stop. "It's late."
Lucas didn't look away. "You've argued under worse conditions."
"Then stop staring at me like something's wrong."
He hesitated.
Something was wrong. He could feel it—but naming it felt like crossing a line neither of them had acknowledged yet.
"You're tired," he said instead.
She laughed softly. "That's your diagnosis?"
"It's an observation."
She stepped down from the podium, gathering her notes with unnecessary force. "I don't need concern. I need critique."
Lucas stood slowly. "Fine."
He approached the podium, stopping just close enough that she could hear his breathing—steady, controlled.
"You're scared," he said quietly.
Aria's head snapped up. "Of what?"
"Losing."
The word hung between them.
"I don't lose," she said.
"That's not what I said."
She stared at him, pulse loud in her ears. "Then say what you mean."
Lucas searched her face, the flicker of defiance, the fractures she tried so hard to hide.
"You're scared of what happens if you do."
Her breath caught.
Just for a moment.
Enough.
Aria turned away, pacing toward the whiteboard. "We're not doing this."
"Doing what?"
"This—" She gestured vaguely. "Psychological excavation."
Lucas didn't move. "Serena will."
That stopped her.
She faced him again, eyes sharp. "Serena is irrelevant."
"She isn't," Lucas said. "She's already circling."
Aria folded her arms tightly, as if holding herself together. "Then let her."
"You're not usually this careless."
Her voice dropped. "I'm not careless."
"No," he agreed. "You're guarded."
The word landed deeper than the others.
Guarded meant vulnerable beneath.
She swallowed.
The silence returned—thicker now. Charged.
Lucas noticed then how rigid her posture was. How her shoulders didn't relax even when she stopped moving. How her eyes flicked toward the door, then back to him.
Like escape was an option she refused to take.
"You don't have to prove anything tonight," he said.
"Yes, I do."
"To who?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
The answer hovered dangerously close to the surface.
Lucas took a step closer.
"Aria," he said softly, "you're allowed to be human."
Her laugh was brittle. "Not in this room."
He watched her carefully, realizing something he hadn't wanted to admit—
She wasn't afraid of Serena.
She was afraid of being seen.
And the silence between them wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
Aria stood by the whiteboard now, marker uncapped but unmoving, staring at words she'd written without seeing them.
Lucas leaned against the table, arms crossed—not defensive, but restrained. Like he was holding himself back from something instinctual.
"Why do you push this hard?" he asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
"Because it works," she said finally.
"No," he said. "Because it protects you."
Her hand tightened around the marker. "You don't know that."
"I do," Lucas replied. "Because I do the same thing."
That made her turn.
Slowly.
"You don't," she said.
"I do," he insisted. "Just differently."
She studied him then—not the composed debater, not the strategic thinker—but the man standing in front of her at nearly one in the morning, choosing honesty over advantage.
"You hold back," she said quietly.
Lucas's jaw flexed.
"From what?" she pressed.
"From you," he admitted.
The words landed between them, fragile and undeniable.
Aria's breath stuttered. "Why?"
"Because," he said, voice low, "you're already carrying too much. I won't be another weight."
Something cracked then.
Not loudly.
But enough.
"I don't need you to be careful," she whispered.
Lucas took a step closer. "You don't need me at all."
She shook her head. "That's not what I meant."
Silence surged again—dangerous now, filled with unsaid truths pressing against the surface.
Aria's voice dropped. "Do you know what Serena said to me?"
Lucas stilled. "What?"
"That I break when variables stop obeying logic." Her laugh was quiet, humorless. "She thinks emotion is my weakness."
"And is it?"
Aria hesitated.
Just once.
That was all it took.
"I don't know," she said. "It's… new."
Lucas's eyes softened. "New doesn't mean fatal."
"It does for me," she replied. "I don't get to be distracted."
"By me?"
The question was barely audible.
Aria closed her eyes.
Her heartbeat thundered.
This was the edge—the place she always stepped away from. The moment before confession became consequence.
"If I say it," she whispered, "I won't be able to take it back."
Lucas didn't move. "Then don't say it."
She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze.
"I'm scared," she said.
There.
Not of losing the trial.
Not of Serena.
Of herself.
Lucas stepped closer—close enough now that space itself felt like a decision.
"I know," he said.
Her voice trembled. "That's the problem."
He lifted his hand—stopped just short of touching her.
Giving her the choice.
Silence screamed.
Lucas leaned in just enough to speak against the quiet.
"You're scared of losing," he whispered.
The words were soft.
Accurate.
Devastating.
Aria didn't deny it.
She didn't confirm it either.
She stood there, breath shallow, eyes locked on his, as if acknowledging the truth aloud might solidify it into something irreversible.
Losing had always been a measurable thing to her.
A score.
A verdict.
A name crossed out on a ranking list.
This felt different.
This felt like erosion.
Lucas straightened slowly, as if sensing that one wrong movement could fracture what little balance remained between them. His hand dropped back to his side, fingers curling once before stilling.
"You don't have to answer," he said.
"I know."
"But you're thinking it."
She swallowed. "I always think."
"That's not what I meant."
The silence stretched again, taut as wire.
Aria turned back to the whiteboard, uncapped marker still hovering uselessly. The words she'd written earlier—case fragments, legal theories—looked foreign now, like notes from a life she'd already outgrown.
"Do you know what scares me?" she asked quietly.
Lucas didn't respond immediately. He waited.
She appreciated that about him. He never rushed the truth.
"That this shouldn't matter," she continued. "And yet it does."
She capped the marker with a sharp click and set it down.
"I've lost cases before. I've been outmaneuvered. I've been wrong." She turned to face him again. "But I've never felt like I was losing myself."
Lucas's expression tightened—not with judgment, but recognition.
"That's what happens when something finally gets past your defenses," he said.
She let out a short, humorless breath. "I don't have defenses. I have systems."
"Same thing," he replied gently.
Aria paced once, twice, then stopped near the table, close enough that she could smell his cologne—clean, understated, unfamiliar in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
"Serena thinks she's already won," Aria said. "Not the trial. Me."
Lucas's eyes sharpened. "She hasn't."
"She wouldn't have said what she said otherwise."
He shook his head. "Serena says things to provoke reactions. That's her strategy."
"And it worked."
The admission slipped out before she could stop it.
Lucas stilled.
"How?"
Aria hesitated again—longer this time. Her instincts screamed at her to pull back, to reframe, to retreat into intellect.
But exhaustion dulled those instincts.
"She made me aware," Aria said slowly, "of how much energy I'm spending pretending nothing's changed."
Lucas studied her face, noting the tension around her mouth, the way her shoulders never fully relaxed.
"You don't have to pretend with me," he said.
The simplicity of it almost undid her.
"That's what scares me," she replied. "You see it anyway."
He took a careful step closer—not invading, just present.
"I see you," he said. "That's not a threat."
"For me, it is."
Her voice didn't waver.
Lucas leaned against the table now, mirroring her posture from earlier, creating a symmetry neither of them commented on.
"You think control is the same as safety," he said.
"It has been," she countered.
"Until now."
She nodded once.
"Yes."
Another silence fell—less volatile, more weighted.
"I won't be your distraction," Lucas said quietly.
Aria looked up. "I didn't ask you to be."
"No," he agreed. "But you're afraid I already am."
Her fingers curled against the edge of the table.
"That implies choice," she said.
"Doesn't it?"
She laughed softly. "That's optimistic."
Lucas watched her for a long moment, then spoke with deliberate care. "You don't lose who you are because something matters. You lose yourself when you refuse to acknowledge it."
The words sank deep.
Aria closed her eyes briefly, absorbing them like a verdict she hadn't prepared for.
When she opened them again, her gaze was steadier—but softer.
"You make it sound manageable," she said.
"Everything sounds manageable before it costs you something," Lucas replied.
She tilted her head. "What would this cost you?"
The question surprised him.
He considered it honestly.
"Restraint," he said. "Distance. Maybe timing."
"And yet," Aria murmured, "you're still here."
He met her gaze. "So are you."
The room felt smaller now, the air warmer, the silence no longer empty but charged with things carefully contained.
Aria straightened, drawing in a slow breath. "We need to refocus."
Lucas didn't argue. "On the trial."
"Yes."
"Okay."
But neither of them moved.
"You're shaking again," Lucas said gently.
She glanced down.
Her hands betrayed her once more.
Damn them.
She pressed them flat against the table, grounding herself. "It'll pass."
"It doesn't have to," he said.
She looked up sharply. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Offer comfort like it's a solution."
He didn't flinch. "It's not a solution. It's an option."
Options were dangerous.
They implied deviation.
Choice.
She pushed away from the table, pacing toward the far wall, needing space before proximity tipped into something else.
"When did you notice?" she asked without turning.
"That you were spiraling?" Lucas said. "Tonight."
She nodded. "Good."
"Good?"
"It means I've held it together longer than most."
"That's not a victory," he said quietly.
She faced him again. "It's survival."
Lucas softened then, something in his expression shifting from challenge to concern.
"You don't have to survive everything alone," he said.
Aria shook her head slowly. "That's the only way I know how."
He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—closing the distance again, but this time stopping well short of touching her.
"I won't cross a line you don't draw," he said. "But don't pretend there isn't one."
She met his gaze, pulse racing.
"There is," she admitted.
"And you're standing right on it," he added.
Her throat tightened.
"Yes."
The admission hung between them, heavy and fragile.
Lucas exhaled slowly, grounding himself the way she usually did.
"We should stop," he said.
Aria blinked. "Why?"
"Because if we don't," he replied, "something changes."
Her lips parted.
"What if it already has?"
The question hovered—dangerous, honest, unanswered.
Lucas didn't respond right away.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady.
"Then we handle it carefully."
She searched his face, looking for certainty.
She found restraint instead.
"I don't trust myself," she whispered.
He met her gaze without hesitation. "I trust you."
That was worse.
Aria stepped back—just one step—but it broke the spell.
She turned away, gathering her things with deliberate calm.
"We should call it a night," she said. "Before exhaustion turns honesty into mistakes."
Lucas nodded. "Agreed."
They moved toward the door together, close but not touching.
At the threshold, Aria paused.
"Lucas?"
He looked at her.
"If I lose this trial," she said quietly, "I'll recover."
He waited.
"If I lose focus," she continued, "I don't know what that does to me."
Lucas considered her words carefully.
"You won't lose focus," he said. "You'll redefine it."
She didn't respond.
Because that required faith.
They stepped into the hallway.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Neither of them looked back.
Because some silences were meant to be carried forward.
Not broken.
Lucas whispers,
"You're scared of losing."