Sera glanced down at her hands, feeling the familiar tightness in her chest. Finn’s question—so soft, so careful—had a way of making her feel like she was on the edge of something. But the last thing she wanted was to let anyone see her vulnerable side.

Her gaze flickered over to him, the way he stood there—calm, almost like he had all the time in the world to listen to her, to *wait* for her to say something more. It made her uncomfortable.

"No, nothing else," she said quietly, giving a small shake of her head. Her voice, despite the words, carried an undercurrent of something unspoken, something she wasn't willing to share just yet.

She forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I’m fine. I just... I don’t need anything."

The teasing shout from Michael felt like a distant echo, the sound of the camp outside the tent a reminder that she was supposed to be strong, to keep her walls up. Because if she let them crumble now, if she let someone—*him*—in, she might not know how to put them back in place again.

Still, something in Finn’s gaze tugged at her, soft and unrelenting, like he could see right through the walls she had spent so long building. And for a moment, she felt a flicker of the person she used to be—before the walls, before the scars.

But no. She couldn’t let him see her like that. Not yet.

"Anyway, thanks for... checking," she added, her tone a little more distant now, even as she kept her eyes on him. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was anything less than fine.

Seraphina watched Finn disappear into the distance, his retreating figure leaving an unfamiliar, lingering warmth behind. She swallowed against the tightness in her chest. It wasn’t like her to feel unsettled over something as simple as a passing exchange. She’d seen plenty of faces come and go in this war-torn camp, and yet... something about Finn had gotten under her skin.

She couldn’t quite explain it. Perhaps it was the gentleness in his eyes, the way he treated her not like some soldier with bloodstained hands, but as a person—a woman, even. Not many saw her like that. The heat in her chest flickered, like a flame carefully stoked but not quite burning. She wasn’t used to feeling things she couldn’t control.

Her fingers grazed the small, cracked pendant she always wore around her neck—a silent reminder of who she once was, before the war had consumed everything. Her family. Her life before all of this. She pressed the pendant to her chest as though to ground herself, but even then, the feeling lingered. A longing. A hope. A fleeting dream of something more than the constant, suffocating weight of war.

But she had no room for dreams.

The sound of the dinner bell rang through the camp, snapping her from her reverie. She gritted her teeth and shoved the thought of Finn aside, focusing on what mattered—what always mattered. Duty. Survival.

She didn’t know why she was allowing herself to indulge in these thoughts. It was ridiculous. A soldier like her didn’t have time for distractions, least of all one like Finn. He was kind, sure, but his life was his own. He wasn’t like her. She could see the flicker of fire in her reflection whenever she looked into a mirror—golden eyes burning like embers, a stark reminder of the power she wielded, the devastation she had caused.

And she had no desire to drag anyone into that. Not again.

With a heavy sigh, Seraphina made her way toward the mess tent, her boots crunching on the dry earth. She didn’t feel hungry, but the ritual of eating was something to hold onto. A distraction, even if only for a few moments. As she passed the rows of tents, her mind kept drifting back to Finn, to the quiet strength in his voice, the way he looked at her with something... softer than the usual pity or fear others wore when they looked at her.

That was dangerous.

Sera knew better than to let anyone close, especially someone like him. He was too kind, too untainted by the darkness that had twisted her soul. He deserved better than the wreckage she’d become. The thought of him *wanting* to stay with her—it almost made her sick. She didn’t deserve kindness like that.

Yet still, her mind wandered. What if, just for a moment, she could forget the flames? Forget the soldiers, the endless battles. What if... there could be peace, a life without constant destruction?

The weight of her guilt tugged at her stomach like a thousand-pound anchor. She had burned entire villages to the ground, wiped out whole battalions. Could anyone truly forgive her for that?

As she sat alone at a corner table, picking at the food on her plate, her thoughts circled back to Finn again. Maybe she was just imagining things. But there was a part of her, deep down, that hoped—just for a fleeting moment—that he saw something in her beyond the flames. Beyond the soldier.

But that was foolish, wasn’t it? Finn was kind, yes, but he wasn’t blind. He knew what kind of person she was. He had to. No one could look at her—really look at her—and not see the scars, both on her body and on her soul.

She leaned back in her chair, staring blankly at the mess tent’s flaps, her golden eyes flickering with a hint of orange as her emotions threatened to ignite once again. She couldn’t allow herself to burn like that—not again.

There was a soft click as someone entered the tent, and she instantly tensed, her instincts kicking in. But it wasn’t Finn. Just another soldier. Still, as the man passed, a memory surfaced—of Finn’s quiet smile, the way his eyes lingered on her for just a moment longer than necessary.

A sigh escaped her lips. She hated this. The way her emotions kept pulling her in directions she couldn’t control. She wasn’t some delicate thing, waiting to be saved. She was a weapon, a soldier forged in fire and blood. And she had a job to do.

But still, the thought of Finn’s gaze—the warmth in it, the kindness—remained with her as she finished her meal in silence. She had to focus. She couldn’t afford to get lost in something so fragile.

But a small part of her couldn’t help but wish for just one moment of peace, one moment where she didn’t have to be the one to destroy everything.

And maybe, just maybe, Finn could give her that.

But only if she was strong enough to let him.

Sera sat at the far end of the mess tent, her eyes fixed on the bowl in front of her, though she had little appetite. The tension in the air felt palpable, thick with the weight of everything she'd done and everything she still had to do. Her fingers toyed absently with the cracked pendant around her neck, the only piece of her past that still clung to her like a fleeting memory.

The world around her buzzed with the usual noise—soldiers talking, laughing, some planning for the fight ahead—but it all felt distant, muffled. She had long ago learned to detach herself from such things, to keep her focus on the mission, on survival. But her thoughts… her thoughts were a different matter entirely.

Finn was here. She could feel his presence, even without looking. It had become an undeniable pull, like gravity she couldn’t escape. He was always around, always watching, and it gnawed at her. He didn’t understand—couldn’t. It wasn’t as simple as he thought. She didn’t need his pity, his help. She didn’t want anyone’s help. She wasn’t weak. But when he looked at her, when his eyes lingered with that concerned, almost helpless expression, something inside her flinched.

She let out a breath, the tension in her shoulders sharpening. He was different from the others. He *cared*, and that was dangerous. She wasn’t used to that—didn’t know how to handle it.

The sound of his footsteps broke her from her thoughts, and for a fleeting moment, her gaze caught his. She saw him hesitate, a shift in his posture. Was he going to say something? She couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, it wasn’t her problem. She would deal with it, like she always did.

Her eyes flickered away before he could see the flicker of emotion in them.

Instead, she focused on her food, chewing mechanically, trying to ignore the tension in her chest, the heat in her blood. She’d be fine. She always was.

But there was always a part of her, deep inside, that wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was someone who *could* help her. But that part was weak. And weakness had no place here.

Sera watched the exchange from the corner of the room, her heart beating in time with the rhythm of the conversation. Finn's words, the quiet intensity in his voice, and the way he seemed to wrestle with his own helplessness—it all stirred something inside her. She didn't want anyone to care this much. Not now. Not after everything.

She had her walls, thick and unyielding, built out of years of self-protection, but still, she could feel the weight of Finn's gaze on her even when he didn’t look her way. She could feel it now, even as he sat with Zoya, eating in silence, pretending he wasn’t as affected as he was.

But she knew. She always knew.

It was almost funny, in a bitter way, how much he wanted to help. How much he cared. Because the last thing she wanted was anyone else’s pity, anyone else’s attempts to fix her. People who cared—people who wanted to help—always ended up disappointed. She didn’t want that for him. She didn’t want him to see how broken she really was.

But still, a small part of her—one she would never admit to, not in a million years—wished she could let him in. Wished she could let someone in without pushing them away.

She forced her eyes away from them and stood, brushing past their table without a word. She didn’t need anyone’s help. She was fine. Or at least, she would be. Eventually. She just had to keep going.

Sera knew he had noticed her. There was no way he hadn't. His silence, the way his eyes flicked down to his food as she passed, was enough to tell her that her presence had been… unwelcome. And she couldn’t help but feel the weight of it.

She hadn’t meant to overhear, but the conversation between Finn and Zoya had been too loud to ignore. The words they exchanged—*those* words—stuck to her like wet fabric, cold and uncomfortable.

Sera didn’t stop walking. She knew better than to confront him. His discomfort, his inability to meet her gaze, it all spoke volumes. He wasn’t ready to face whatever was left unsaid between them, and, honestly, neither was she. So, she kept her head high, shoulders straight, and made her way out of the mess tent without a second glance.

The sound of his fist clenching, that brief, sharp movement before he got up, was another reminder. She wasn’t the only one carrying the weight of their words, their unfinished business. He was tangled in it too, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

As she walked away, the air felt thick. Sera kept her steps steady, trying not to let her own frustration spill out. The night air was cool as it hit her skin, but it didn’t offer the comfort she needed. Not yet. Maybe it never would.

It was better this way, wasn’t it? Keeping a distance, not speaking. Not pushing for more when there was nothing left to give. But still, despite all of that, she couldn't help but feel… exposed. She was too aware of his presence, of how his tension had shifted after their brief interaction. Even from afar, she could feel him—could feel him grappling with whatever it was between them.

Once she was back in her tent, she tossed her jacket aside, and for a moment, the quiet felt almost too loud. Sera sat on her cot, staring out into the dim light of the camp. Somewhere out there, Finn was wrestling with the same ghosts she was, and despite everything, it bothered her.

Why did it matter so much?