Morning light spilled across the academy grounds in a gentle wash, pale and warm, as Aerin walked toward the main entrance.
She wasn't in her Patrol uniform.
The realisation hovered at the edge of her thoughts even as she moved with the same disciplined stride she always had. Her clothes were simple—clean lines, soft fabric, practical without being rigid—but they felt unfamiliar against her skin. Not wrong. Just different. With every step, she was aware of herself in a way she rarely was, conscious of how the fabric shifted when she moved, how the breeze caught at her sleeves, how exposed she felt without the weight of armor and insignia to define her.
The academy looked different in the morning. Less imposing. Less watchful. Students crossed the courtyard in small groups, voices low, laughter unguarded. It was a world that existed parallel to her own—one she trained beside but rarely stepped into.
Aerin slowed as the entrance came into view.
And then she saw him.
Cyros stood near the gate, posture straight but relaxed, hands resting loosely at his sides. He wasn't pacing. He wasn't checking the time. He simply waited, gaze drifting calmly across the grounds as if patience came naturally to him. The morning light caught faintly in his dark hair, softening the sharpness she had grown used to seeing during missions and evaluations.
Beside him—inevitably—was Taren.
Leaning slightly against the stone railing, arms animated even now, Taren was mid-sentence, his face lit with an easy grin as he spoke about something Aerin couldn't hear from this distance. Whatever it was, Cyros listened without interruption, head inclined just enough to show attention, though his expression remained neutral.
The sight made Aerin pause.
Not because she was surprised.
Because something inside her quietly realigned.
The question she had carried with her since last night—the unspoken, fluttering uncertainty that had followed her from her room to the academy halls—settled into clarity with a soft, almost imperceptible click.
Of course.
It wasn't a date.
The thought didn't sting the way she might have expected. Instead, it arrived with a strange sense of balance, like a weight being set down after being held too long.
Why would Cyros invite someone for a date without saying so? Why would he frame it so plainly, so without emphasis? He wasn't the type to dress intention in ambiguity. He didn't circle meanings. He stated things as they were.
And more than that—why would Cyros choose a movie of all things?
She knew him better than that now.
He was someone who found comfort in quiet rooms and still moments, who preferred observation over indulgence, thought over distraction. He didn't seek entertainment; he tolerated it when it served a purpose. If he left his room, it was usually because something required his presence—not because he needed escape.
This wasn't about a movie.
It was about inclusion.
The image sharpened in her mind: Taren's enthusiasm, his love for shared experiences, his instinct to pull people together without thinking twice. This trip—this idea—felt unmistakably like him. Loud in intent, simple in joy. And Cyros, as always, had adjusted around it without complaint. Had extended the invitation, not because he wanted to, but because it was the right thing to do.
And because he had thought of her.
That realisation warmed her in a quieter, steadier way than anticipation ever could.
He hadn't invited her with hidden meaning or expectation. He had invited her because she was part of the team. Because presence mattered. Because leaving her out would have felt wrong.
Aerin resumed walking.
As she drew closer, Taren spotted her first. His face lit up immediately, and he straightened, lifting a hand in an exaggerated wave that bordered on theatrical.
Cyros followed his gaze.
For just a moment—so brief she might have imagined it—his eyes paused on her, registering not just her arrival, but her choice of clothes, her expression, the way she carried herself. There was no surprise on his face. Just a quiet acknowledgement.
And somehow, that was enough.
Whatever this day would become, Aerin felt her steps steady as she crossed the last stretch of ground toward them, understanding at last that she hadn't been invited into something uncertain—but into something shared.
"Aerin!" Taren called, already smiling. "Good, you made it. I was worried Cyros would decide movies were a waste of oxygen and leave."
"I did not," Cyros replied evenly. "I said they were inefficient."
Aerin almost smiled.
She stopped in front of them, adjusting the strap of her bag more out of habit than nerves. She had chosen her clothes carefully that morning—nothing dramatic, nothing attention-seeking. Comfortable. Practical. Herself. Standing here now, she realised she didn't feel foolish for that effort.
She felt… human.
"We were just about to head to the station," Taren said. "Perfect timing."
Cyros inclined his head slightly. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Aerin replied, her voice steady.
They fell into step together without discussion, the rhythm of their footsteps aligning naturally as they moved away from the academy gates. For a while, only Taren spoke—commenting on the weather, the light, how even the Sol looked "extra majestic today," as if it ever looked anything else.
Aerin listened, but her thoughts drifted inward.
Last night, she had imagined conversations that might happen today. Awkward pauses. Meaningful glances. Questions she didn't know how to ask. Now, walking beside them, she realised how unnecessary all that speculation had been.
This wasn't about being chosen.
It was about being included.
And for someone like her—someone who had spent years defined by discipline, expectation, and distance—that meant more than a label ever could.
She glanced sideways at Cyros. He walked with his usual composure, gaze forward, hands relaxed at his sides. Nothing about him suggested special intent. And yet, he had thought to invite her. Had thought she might want this.
That mattered.
They reached the station platform just as the train slid in, doors opening with a low hiss. The interior lights spilled out, soft and warm against the metallic morning.
Taren claimed a seat immediately, stretching his legs with exaggerated satisfaction. "Ah, freedom. Civilization. Seats that aren't made for training posture."
Cyros took the window seat across from him, as expected.
Aerin hesitated only a fraction of a second before sitting beside Cyros.
The train began to move, the academy slowly receding into the distance. Outside, the sky opened up—vast, luminous, impossibly calm. The Sol dominated the horizon, radiant and steady, as if nothing in the world could ever disturb its rhythm.
Taren leaned forward, eyes practically glowing. "Look at that," he said reverently. "I don't care how many times I see it. Space always feels unreal."
Aerin followed his gaze, watching the stars scatter faintly across the dark canvas beyond the glass. "You talk about it like it's alive," she said.
Taren grinned. "Maybe it is."
Cyros spoke without turning from the window. "Or maybe people project meaning onto things they don't fully understand."
Taren shrugged. "Same thing, sometimes."
Aerin listened to them, to the easy back-and-forth, and felt something loosen inside her.
This—this quiet motion, this shared direction—was enough.
The train hummed steadily beneath them as it carried them forward, the three of them framed against light and stars, talking about nothing important at all.