Noah forgot to breathe.
Just for a moment.
It hit him all at once—the stance, the timing, the way the room bent around her presence without a single word raised.
He'd seen this before.
Years ago.
When he was younger, louder, convinced he could keep up if he just tried harder.
The Memory Slips In
Back then, he used to stand at the edge of the mat, helmet under his arm, eyes wide.
Not because he was scared.
Because he was learning.
"…Watch her feet," someone had whispered once.
"…Don't blink," another had said.
Noah hadn't understood why until much later.
Back in the Corridor
Now, leaning against a cold wall with cracked ribs and dried blood on his shirt, he watched her move again.
And felt twelve years old.
Small.
Outclassed.
Safe.
"…She never changed," he thought.
"…She just got quieter."
The Difference He Sees Now
Before, he'd thought it was confidence.
Now he knew better.
It was certainty.
She didn't rush because she didn't need to.
She didn't explain because explanation was inefficient.
Every step she took removed options from everyone else.
A Familiar Feeling
His chest tightened—not from pain this time.
From relief.
"…They won't touch her," he realized.
"…Not after this."
No one here would.
And anyone else who tried would have to go through them first.
Someone Notices Him Watching
A man near the line glanced toward Noah.
Smirked faintly.
"…Still looking at her like that," he muttered.
Noah didn't look away.
"…Yeah," he said softly.
"Because it works."
The man nodded once.
Understood.
The Old Dynamic Returns
Aria stopped moving.
Turned her head slightly.
Looked at Noah.
Their eyes met.
For half a second, something unspoken passed between them.
Not nostalgia.
Not gratitude.
Acknowledgment.
She Doesn't Correct Him
She didn't tell him to stop staring.
Didn't tell him to focus.
Didn't tell him to leave.
Which meant—
He was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Closing Beat
Noah exhaled slowly.
The tension in his shoulders finally eased.
Watching her like this—
In control.
Untouchable.
Alive—
He felt something he hadn't let himself feel since the night she'd died.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Trust.
And for the first time in years—
He believed, completely, that everything would be fine.
Because she was here.
And she always knew what to do next.