Kye Yon
Miss Masuza walks ahead of us, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. Her posture is stiff with stress and outrage and the quiet horror of her half-destroyed lab.
Anna walks beside me. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to ignore.
The corridor smells faintly of disinfectant and chemicals, but underneath it there's something warmer; smoke, maybe. Or… adrenaline. Or the echo of what could've gone very wrong.
I tell myself to breathe normally. But I can't.
I glance sideways before I can stop myself.
Anna's gaze is fixed forward, lips pressed together, expression unreadable. A faint smudge of something—ash, maybe, streaks the cuff of her sleeve. Her hair has slipped loose from the hairband's neat placing, a few strands falling across her cheek.
She looks… unhurt.
Relief hits me so suddenly it's almost painful. I look away immediately, irritated with myself.
I shouldn't be cataloguing details like this. Shouldn't notice how pale she still is, or how her fingers flex slightly at her side like she's working through leftover shock. Shouldn't feel the faint, irrational urge to ask if she's really fine, even though she already said she was.
She's always fine. That's Anna Norris.
My jaw tightens.
This means nothing, I tell myself. Taking the blame was logical. Miss Masuza trusts me. The principal will listen to me. Damage control is easier this way. But the problem is—
When I imagine not stepping in, when I picture the blast reaching her instead of me, my chest tightens in a way logic doesn't explain. And for the first time in a long time, I don't trust my own reasoning.
Miss slows near the office door.
Anna shifts slightly beside me, her arm brushing mine by accident. The contact is brief. Barely there. But my muscles tense instantly, awareness sharpening like someone turned the volume up too high.
She doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
And in that suspended second, while, walking toward consequences I don't regret and feelings I refuse to name, one thought settles in quietly—dangerous in its simplicity—I would do it again.
Without thinking. Without hesitation.
I would save her again.
No matter how badly it burns.
***
The principal's office smells like old paper and polished wood.
I stand beside Anna, hands clasped loosely behind my back, posture straight out of habit. My gaze stays fixed on the carpet. A deep maroon one, woven too neatly, like disorder isn't allowed to exist here.
Miss Masuza stands near the door, arms folded tight against herself. She has spoken every bit of how we destroyed her lab. But that's not what's bothering me... It's him.
My grandfather sits in one of the chairs near the window, legs crossed, cane resting against his knee. His presence fills the room without effort. It always has. He looks between us like he's been enjoying the scene. Why, of all times, is he here now?!
I don't look at him directly.
The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable enough for the principal to clear his throat.
"Well," he begins, fingers interlaced on the desk, voice carefully measured, "I've reviewed the situation. The lab incident was… unfortunate, but not unheard of."
He glances at Miss Masuza, then back at us. "You're both exceptional students. From respected families. Incidents like these can happen in practical environments. Especially under academic pressure."
Anna shifts slightly beside me. I feel it. The faint release of tension. The quiet hope she doesn't let show on her face.
The principal continues, warming to his own reasoning. "The damage, while regrettable, was contained. No serious injuries occurred. In light of this, I see no reason for formal disciplinary action."
My shoulders loosen a fraction. Not relief. Just acceptance. Then—
"Punish them." Gramps voice cuts through the room, firm and unhurried.
I look at him. The same amusement lingers on his face.
The principal freezes mid-motion, his polite smile faltering. "Director, I—"
"Just Punish them." Gramps repeats calmly.
The principal exhales slowly, defeated. His gaze moves between Anna and me, and for the first time, something like regret crosses his face.
***
The groundskeeper is more annoying than our house-butler.
I stand on the green grass with a hose in my hand, a sports jacket zipped halfway my chest, sleeves already damp, staring straight ahead like this is some kind of public execution. Ahead of us, rows of uneven earth wait to be watered—our punishment, apparently.
Anna hadn't said a word. Not when we changed. Not when we were marched here like criminals. Not even now.
She stands beside me, a full arm's length away, hair tied back messily, sleeves rolled up, fingers curled tight around the hose. There's a streak of dirt on her cheek she probably doesn't realize is there.
I shouldn't notice things like that.
"Start," the groundskeeper mutters, already walking away.
The water gushes out suddenly, strong and cold, splashing against the earth. I angle the pipe down, watching the soil darken as it drinks it in. For a while, the only sound is water hitting the ground and the distant noise of students somewhere far away—free, laughing, not sentenced to agricultural labor.
I sneak a glance at her.
She's focused, brows furrowed in concentration like this is another equation she's determined to solve. The sunlight catches the side of her face, and—
She notices me looking. Her eyes flick up. Sharp. Curious.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing," I say too quickly, turning back to the ground.
She snorts. "You're a terrible liar."
"I wasn't lying."
"You were staring."
"I was observing."
She tilts her head. "Observing what?"
I hesitate just long enough to make it suspicious. "My impending humiliation?" I answer.
She lets out a snort before she can stop herself. It slips free. Soft, real and something in my chest loosens.
"There," she says, nudging the hose toward a dry patch. "You're missing a spot."
"I'm doing it strategically, amore."
"That's not a thing."
"It is when you're intelligent."
"Oh please," she scoffs. "Your intelligence almost got us expelled."
"That was heroic," I argue. "I saved you."
She turns toward me sharply. "I didn't ask you to."
"I know." The words come out softer than intended.
She pauses, studying my face like she's trying to read something written too faintly. The water keeps running, forgotten, pooling dangerously close to my shoes.
"You didn't have to take the blame," she says quietly.
I shrug. "Too late now."
Her gaze lingers. Then, without warning, she lifts the hose just slightly.
Water splashes straight into my chest.
I gasp. "What the hell!"
She's already laughing, eyes bright, shoulders shaking as she aims the pipe back at the ground like nothing happened. "That," she says innocently, "was an accident."
I stare at the wet spreading across my jacket. Then I grin.
"Oh amore," I murmur. "You're dead."
Before she can react, I flick my wrist and send a sharp arc of water straight at her. It hits her shoulder, then her arm, then splashes up into her hair.
She yelps. "Kye Yon!"
"You started it."
"I absolutely did not—"
Splash-splash!
Water flies everywhere—cold, chaotic, completely abandoning the purpose of watering the ground. She laughs as she tries to dodge, stepping back, nearly slipping on the mud.
"Careful," I warn, still spraying. "Wouldn't want another lab incident."
"You're impossible!" she shouts, aiming straight for my face.
I barely manage to turn in time, water soaking into my collar. I laugh—actually laugh, the sound loud and unguarded, ripped straight out of me before I can stop it.
She freezes for half a second, staring.
"What?" I ask, breathless.
"You laugh," she says, stunned. "Like a normalperson."
"Devastating, I know."
She laughs harder at that, wiping water from her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, hair sticking to her face, sports jacket clinging to her arms.
I've never seen her like this. Uncareful. Unarmored. Real.
For a moment, neither of us sprays the other. The hoses hang loose in our hands, water pooling uselessly at our feet.
"This is the worst punishment ever," she says, still smiling.
"Liar," I reply. "You're enjoying it."
She tilts her head. "Maybe."
Our eyes meet. And something shifts—not heavy, not urgent. Just warm. Easy. Dangerous in its own quiet way.
She breaks the moment first, smirking. "Don't get used to it, amore."
God, that nickname.
I raise my hose again. "Then stop smiling."
She splashes me once more. And I don't even pretend to be annoyed.
For the first time since the blast, since the office, since my gramps voice cut through the room...
I forget to worry.
And standing there, soaked and laughing beside her, I realize something unsettling and unmistakable:
A punishment was never supposed to feel like this.