I was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, stretching my shoulders, muscles tight from yesterday's long hours and emotional release.
Celeste's saddle lay neatly by the corner, ready for the day's practice. The routine awaited me, relentless, precise, unyielding.
A soft knock at the door interrupted the quiet.
Calix's voice followed shortly after.
"Breakfast is ready. And you should eat something before you head to the stables."
I didn't move immediately.
Not because I didn't want to eat, but because I wasn't sure how to navigate his presence without giving in to the slightest hint of weakness.
"I don't need breakfast," I said finally, voice flat, distant. "I'll eat later."
"You will," he said quietly, not arguing, not insisting, just stating facts.
His confidence in me, oddly, felt grounding. His presence alone was enough to keep me tethered in the small moments of calm I rarely allowed myself.
By mid-morning, I was at the stables.
The air was thick with the scent of hay, earth, and leather, familiar and comforting in its neutrality.
I ran a hand along Celeste's neck, letting the warmth and rhythm of her breathing soothe the tightness coiling in my chest.
Today, I was not just training for the competition. I was preparing for the scrutiny, the judgment, the relentless pressure that came from my parents' expectations.
"You're already tense," Calix said, leaning casually against the fence. His tone was teasing, but his eyes were careful, observant. "Take a breath."
I ignored him.
Not rude.
Not hostile.
Just distant, impervious, focused.
He stepped closer, unconsciously or not, offering a presence that didn't demand attention but didn't allow me to hide either. "You don't have to carry this alone," he said softly.
I didn't look at him.
I didn't need reassurance, not really.
But there was a tiny flicker inside me that acknowledged the offer.
I had spent my life being cold, perfect, untouchable, but his calm presence reminded me, subtly, that some battles could be shared.
Even if I didn't allow myself to admit it.
The drills were precise, methodical.
Celeste responded to every subtle command, every shift of weight, every small tug of the reins.
I pushed her harder than before, not for victory alone but to release the tension that had accumulated over the past weeks, disappointment, pressure, expectation.
Calix stayed at the edge, making small comments, slight adjustments to observe form, gentle reminders when I overextended or miscalculated.
Not overbearing.
Not intrusive. Just… quiet, steady support.
Hours passed.
Sweat drenched my shirt, muscles burned, and my chest tightened from exertion and stress.
Yet, when I finally dismounted, I realized something I hadn't before: I didn't feel entirely alone in the storm.
His presence, playful, persistent, patient was an anchor, grounding me in a way no one else had ever done.
"Better than yesterday," he said softly, brushing a hand along Celeste's mane as I gathered the tack.
"I didn't practice for your approval," I said flatly, but I didn't brush his hand away this time. I didn't have to.
He smiled faintly, knowing. "I never asked for it."
The phone buzzed then, a message from my parents:
Aurora, you must compete soon. You cannot fail again. Your next event is critical. We expect victory.
I read the words, fingers tightening around the reins.
Not out of fear, not out of anger, but a cold acknowledgment of the relentless expectation I had been born into.
Calix noticed the tension, lightly squeezing my shoulder.
"You'll handle it," he said quietly. "And if they forget to see what you've done, I won't."
I didn't respond with words, but a small nod was enough.
It wasn't warmth, not entirely, but it was acknowledgment, a tiny crack in the walls I had built.
—
For the rest of the morning, the rhythm continued.
Me, Celeste, the drills, the motion, the discipline.
And always, Calix at the edge, quiet, steady, persistent.
I didn't care to admit it, not yet, but his presence had become part of the rhythm I depended on, not as a crutch, not as a necessity, but as a constant I had learned to rely on without permission.
By the time we left the stables, I was exhausted, spent, but steady.
My muscles ached, my chest felt heavy, but the quiet acknowledgement of shared support, his persistent presence was a weight I was willing to bear without complaint.
He walked beside me to the car, casual, but somehow protective. "Ready for the next step?" he asked softly.
I didn't answer immediately.
Instead, I focused on the drive ahead, the evening to come, and the fact that for the first time in a long while, the weight of expectation felt… slightly lighter.