Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cole had never hated mirrors. They were just… there. Reflections, nothing more. But lately, every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass—whether it be in the bathroom or simply walking past a window—it felt like a spotlight burning into the parts of himself he couldn’t hide. The curve of his stomach. The softness on his jawline. The way his gi fit a little tighter than it used to.

It didn’t used to matter. He was the strongest, the most powerful. He was the rock. The foundation of the team. But somewhere along the way, that strength had been rebranded.

He wasn’t sure when it started, exactly. Just that one day, he’d looked down and noticed the way his stomach pressed against the band of his pants. Or how the way his chest filled out his gi didn’t feel solid anymore. It felt like too much. Too visible. Like every eye could see the bulk he once carried with pride and interpret it as something else now—lazy, indulgent, wrong.

And maybe it had always been there. The jokes. The teasing. The way cake had practically become a punchline to his name. He used to laugh along, used to let it roll off his back like everything else. Because it didn’t matter, right? They were harmless jokes. A jab at his “obsession.” Just Cole being Cole. Big guy, strong guy, cake guy.

But now, the word sat heavier than frosting in his gut.

_______________

Dinner had always been a comforting ritual after missions—something that made everything feel a little less chaotic. Zane had outdone himself this time: warm rice, grilled vegetables drizzled with sesame oil, perfectly seasoned dumplings, and a roasted tofu dish that Kai was already stealing off other plates. There was laughter, banter, and the low hum of exhaustion that only came after a job done just well enough to leave everyone in one piece.

All of the ninja were freshly bathed and dressed in what was likely the most comfortable clothing they owned.

Jay had gone for his usual: a soft blue t-shirt and plaid pajama pants that probably hadn’t seen the inside of a laundry basket in a while.
Nya wore a black-and-white striped shirt and the specific gray sweatpants she only pulled out for what she called “special post-mission occasions.”
Kai lounged in a red zip-up with a faded white tee underneath, his pants almost identical to Nya’s—though his were far more worn at the knees and cuffs.
Lloyd had stuffed himself into his beloved skeleton hoodie, now a little snug on his aged-up frame, paired with simple black pants Cole was pretty sure he’d stolen from Kai.
Zane, still in the kitchen, had changed into a light blue knit sweater layered over a collared shirt, paired with spotless white pants that somehow stayed clean, even mid-cooking.

And then there was Cole. Slightly hunched in his favorite dark hoodie—oversized, heavy, and worn at the sleeves. It used to feel comforting. Now it just felt necessary. His sweatpants sagged a bit at the waist, but he didn’t care. The hoodie was the barrier, the shield between him and everyone else’s eyes.

He sat at the far end of the table, picking at the edges of his food with his chopsticks. His muscles ached. His back still stung from a particularly hard fall earlier that day. But it wasn’t the bruises bothering him.

It was the heaviness in his chest. The tightness in his hoodie. The way everyone else was already halfway through their plates while his was still nearly full.

Jay and Nya bickered as usual, Jay trying to steal food from her plate. Kai threw food at Lloyd, who retaliated by launching it back with a grin. Sensei Wu chuckled quietly from the head of the table, hands folded in amusement.

Zane finally returned from the kitchen, setting more dishes on the table.

Nya spoke up, mouth half-full. “Zane, this is amazing. Seriously, best post-mission meal yet.”

Cole would usually jump in with something like “never had a better meal” or “Zane always cooks the best food after a long week.” But tonight, he couldn’t seem to find the words. His throat felt dry. The usual warmth around the table was gone.

Instead, he pushed a dumpling across his plate, eyes fixed on the fading steam.

He should say something. He wanted to. But his mouth wouldn’t move.

Not without someone looking. Not without someone noticing.

And no one seemed to.

“I’m glad it is to your liking,” Zane said. “Though they’re still in the kitchen, I’ve prepared dessert—”

“Let me guess,” Jay cut in with a grin. “Cake for Cole?”

Cole froze. The word hit his spine like a slap.

Across the table, Kai chuckled and elbowed Jay. “Better save yourself a slice before he inhales the whole thing.”

The laughter wasn’t cruel. Just casual. The kind of teasing that came with familiarity.
But Cole didn’t laugh. Couldn’t.

He forced a smile. Numb. Hollow. The others didn’t notice.

They kept talking, arguing about who almost died more dramatically, debating battle moves. Lloyd was still trying to convince Nya that his backflip saved her life. Zane had slipped back into the kitchen.

Cole stared at his untouched food. He knew he should eat. His body needed it. The calories, energy, something. But all he could think about was the rice mound in front of him, how heavy the sauce looked, how tight his hoodie suddenly felt around his arms.

He used to love food. It used to bring him joy. But now every bite felt like a spotlight. Every chew felt counted.

Zane came back, placing a large cake at the center of the table. Chocolate with tart raspberry filling—Cole’s favorite. Of course Zane had remembered.

His stomach twisted.

The cake sat there like a spotlight dressed in frosting. Swirls of buttercream, the bright red raspberry showing between the layers. Too much. Too visible. Too him.

And he waited.

Waited for someone to say something.

There was a pause in conversation. A beat too long. The kind of pause that let tension seep through the cracks.

Usually, he’d be reaching across the table by now, calling dibs. But Cole didn’t move. Just rested his chin in his hand, pushing a single grain of rice around like it might somehow personally wronged him.

Jay broke the silence. “Whoa… is this a record? No immediate cake grab?”

Nya laughed. “Is Cole sick? Someone check his pulse.”

Kai smirked. “Careful, Zane. You might’ve actually made a dessert he won’t devour.”

It was teasing. Harmless on the surface.

But it landed differently.

Cole forced a laugh—thin, breathy. “Just… letting everyone else get a shot at it first,” he muttered.

Lloyd blinked. “More for us, I guess.”

Zane tilted his head, but didn’t press. He knew Cole well enough to leave space when it was needed.

The conversation moved on. Cole didn’t.

The cake sat there. Sweet. Perfect.

And it made him feel sick.

_______________

The halls of the monastery were quiet. Peaceful, almost.

Dinner had ended with the usual mess of dishes and the fading hum of tired voices. Everyone had drifted off in different directions: Jay and Kai still bickering, Nya calling reminders about morning training, Lloyd disappearing with one last slice in hand.

Cole had said goodnight. Had smiled. Had pretended like everything was fine.

Now, his room felt too big. Too still.

He shut the door behind him with more care than necessary, locking it even though he didn’t need to. The soft click echoed louder than it should have. It felt wrong, like he was doing something he shouldn’t be. He stood there for a long moment, back against the door, hoodie still on despite the warm summer breeze whisking through the monastery’s open windows.

The silence settled around him like a blanket. Heavy. Suffocating.

He finally moved, dragging himself toward the bed, not to lie down, he decided, but just to sit. Not even sit. Perch. On the edge, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between them.

His stomach twisted. Not with hunger. Not really. More like… pressure. Guilt. That kind of creeping fullness that had nothing to do with how much he’d eaten and everything to do with what it meant.

He hadn’t even touched dessert.

That should’ve made him feel better. Like he’d proven something. Maybe to himself, to everyone else. That he didn’t always have to be the guy went for seconds. That he had control.

But instead, it felt hollow. Wrong.

He’d picked at his plate like a stranger. He was a stranger, even to himself. The version of him that used to laugh freely, who used to talk about food like it was a love language, felt miles away. Like someone else entirely.

Cole pulled off his hoodie and tossed it onto the floor with a little more force than necessary. His t-shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat from dinner and something else. Nerves, anxiety, shame…maybe all of it. He didn’t know.

He stood, crossed the room, flicked on the light switch, and stepped in front of the mirror.

The overhead light buzzed faintly as it cast pale yellow over his reflection.

He tried not to flinch.

Tried to see himself like he used to: broad-shouldered, strong, solid. But the reflection met him with soft edges. A too-full stomach. A jaw that looked less defined. Sweat clung to his shirt. He lifted his top just enough to reveal the lower half of his torso.

He pinched the side of his stomach.

Still there.

He turned sideways. Sucked in. Let it go.

Still there.

Cole swallowed hard and backed away from the mirror like it might bite him.

He sat back on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, and let the weight of everything finally settle.

He didn’t cry. That wasn’t something he did. But the tightness in his chest felt dangerously close.

He felt disgusting.

He felt weak.

And worse, he felt alone in it.

He lay awake for a long time that night, listening to nothing but the soft blowing of wind and his own breathing.

_______________

Cole’s eyes snapped open long before his alarm had the chance.

He didn’t feel rested. His legs ached, his back still throbbing from yesterday’s fight, and his chest felt heavy—like a dumbbell was placed right on top of it.

But lying still was worse.

The silence of his room clawed at him, thick and itchy like a blanket soaked in sweat. He sat up quickly, as if movement alone could shake the thoughts loose.

He didn’t bother changing into proper training gear. Just threw on an old tank top and slipped silently out of his room, careful not to wake anyone. The monastery was dead quiet at this hour, the halls washed in soft gray-blue from the faint early light leaking through the windows.

When he checked the clock, it was around 4:40 AM.

Training didn’t start until 6.

He had time.

_______________

The air was cold. Sharp.

He welcomed it.

Cole had been swinging the weighted staff for what felt like forever. His top clung to his skin, soaked through at the back. His breath came fast and ragged, his form slipping into something less clean, more desperate. But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

Every time he felt the burn in his muscles, the ache in his lungs, he pushed harder. Faster. More reps. No rest. No water. Just movement. Just work. Just pain, pure and simple.

Pain felt like progress.

Pain felt like control.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

“Dude. What the hell.”

Jay.

Cole didn’t stop swinging. Not at first. Just adjusted his grip and moved faster.

“You’ve already been training?” Jay said, stepping into the courtyard, eyebrows lifting. “It’s not even six.”

Cole shrugged, still panting, slowing down to a more understandable pace. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Again?” Kai’s voice now, from behind Jay. He walked out with a towel slung over his shoulder, expression shifting into something tighter when he caught sight of Cole’s drenched shirt. “You look like you’ve been at this for hours.”

“Hour and a half,” Cole muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not that long.”

“Bro, that’s long,” Jay said, squinting at him. “What are you doing, prepping for a marathon?”

Cole huffed a short laugh. “Just warming up.”

Zane appeared behind them, arms crossed. “Overexertion can lead to muscular damage and decreased combat efficiency, Cole. You should rest before team training.”

“I am resting,” Cole lied, dropping the staff and leaning on it like a walking stick. “Just pacing myself.”

Kai raised an eyebrow, glancing at the puddle of sweat under him. “Uh-huh.”

There was a pause.

None of them said anything outright. But the looks passed between them were enough. Jay looked confused, Kai looked skeptical, and Zane looked concerned to say the least, in his own quiet way.

Lloyd and Nya hadn’t arrived yet. Which was probably for the best.

Cole turned away before any of them could say something more direct. “I’m fine.”

The others didn’t push. Not then. They exchanged glances, shrugged it off, and moved into the room to begin warm-ups before Master Wu arrived.

But Cole could feel their eyes on him the entire time.

_______________

After training, the kitchen buzzed with soft clinks and the low hum of conversation. Zane had prepared something light after training—fruit, yogurt, toast, eggs. Nothing too heavy. The kind of meal meant to refuel, not overdo.

Cole lingered near the entrance to the dining area, his hair still damp from a fast, lukewarm shower. His clothes felt looser, but not in a way that gave him comfort. His hoodie stayed on.

He didn’t sit.

The others were already gathered at the table, plates half-filled. Kai was reaching across Nya to grab more toast. Lloyd had three slices of apple in his mouth. Jay had made a face about the yogurt being “too plain.”

Zane looked up when he noticed Cole standing at the edge of the room.

“You should eat something,” he said gently.

“I’m good,” Cole replied.

Jay looked up, blinking. “Wait, you’re not eating? You?”

Cole’s jaw tensed.

“Maybe I’m not hungry all the time,” he said, sharper than he meant to.

It got quiet for a second.

Zane turned back to the stove like he hadn’t heard the edge in Cole’s tone. Kai gave a half-shrug and went back to eating. But Nya watched him for a moment longer, like she could tell something was off, even if she didn’t know what it was yet.

Cole slowly walked toward the counter and picked up a banana, just to look like he had something. He didn’t eat it.

He sat at the far end of the table and stayed quiet, pretending to peel the banana but never actually taking a bite. He nodded when spoken to, laughed when someone made a joke, but the food in front of him remained untouched.

And this—this would become normal.

Skipping meals. Say he was tired. Say he had a headache. Say he just wasn’t hungry today.

Until the hunger forced its way through—late at night, or after too much training, or when he finally cracked. Then, he’d eat too much. Shovel food down in a haze of guilt and desperation. Bread. Leftovers. Sugar. Whatever he could find.

And afterward, the shame would settle in his stomach like concrete.

Heavy. Rotten.

And he’d try to get rid of it.

Chapter Text

Cole didn’t count days. Not exactly. But if he had to guess, it’d been about a week.

A week of skipped meals and early mornings. A week of pushing his body until his vision blurred and his arms trembled from the strain. A week of pretending.

His hoodie had started to hang looser around the shoulders. His sweats tied a little tighter. No one had said anything yet, but their eyes lingered a little longer when he passed. Zane, especially.

Not that Cole planned to talk about it.

He was fine. Just tired. Just busy. Just focused.

That morning, he was the courtyard before sunrise again. The stone beneath his feet was still cool from the night air, and his breath fogged slightly when he exhaled. He didn’t mind. The cold helped. It kept the edge sharp.

Each strike of the staff echoed through the empty room, rhythmic and harsh. He hit harder than he needed to. Faster than he should have. The ache in his arms and legs didn’t scare him anymore—it reassured him. Pain meant he was doing something right.

Control. Discipline. That’s all this was.

Not a problem.

He kept moving. Because stopping meant feeling. And feeling meant—

“Cole.”

He froze.

Behind him, Nya stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hair still damp from a quick shower. Her eyes weren’t angry. Just… knowing. And that was worse.

“We’re not scheduled to train for another hour,” she said.

Cole grabbed his towel, wiped his face, and forced a smile.

“Just getting a head start.”

Nya didn’t smile back.

Cole held Nya’s gaze for half a second too long, then looked away.

“It’s not a crime to train early,” he said, reaching for his water bottle even though it was still full.

“No,” she said. “But training this hard on no sleep, with that look on your face… that’s not nothing either.”

He hated that she noticed. Hated it more than if she’d just yelled at him or told him to take a break. The quiet concern was worse. It meant she was paying attention.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

Nya didn’t press. She just nodded once, slowly, and stepped away from the doorway.

But her footsteps didn’t fade right away. He waited until he was sure she was gone before he dropped the towel back on the bench and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

_______________

The lunch table was half full when Cole walked in. Jay was talking a mile a minute about some update to his “new and improved” invention, and Lloyd was very pointedly ignoring him in favor of slicing an apple into increasingly thinner pieces. Kai was already on his second plate.

“Yo,” Jay called, mid-ramble. “Where were you this morning? You disappeared right after Wu dismissed us.”

Cole shrugged. “Just had stuff to do.”

He made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a cup and filling it with water even though his throat felt raw and tight. The thought of food turned his stomach.

Zane stood at the stove, plating the last of the grilled squash and rice.

“You should eat,” he said, not looking up. “You missed breakfast.”

Cole offered a half-smile. “Not hungry.”

Zane glanced over, his expression unreadable. “You’ve been ‘not hungry’ a lot lately.”

Cole didn’t answer. He turned, walked to the table, and sat—no plate, just the cup in his hand.

Kai raised an eyebrow. “Did you eat already?”

“Yeah,” Cole lied.

No one argued. Jay kept talking. Lloyd flicked an apple slice across the table at Kai.

But Nya, a few seats down, looked up from her food. Her eyes met Zane’s. Just for a second.

Neither said anything. But something had shifted.

_______________

That night, the monastery was quiet.

Cole liked it better this way. No footsteps echoing down the halls. No laughter bleeding through the walls. Just the sound of wind moving through paper doors and the occasional creak of the old wood beneath his feet.

He hadn’t meant to get out of bed. He’d told himself he’d sleep early. That tomorrow, he’d eat normally. That this would stop. He’d get a grip.

But here he was again.

The kitchen light buzzed softly overhead. He didn’t turn it on. The glow from the hallway was enough to see by. His footsteps were soft, practiced. No sound.

The fridge door opened with a quiet suction pop. The inside light cast a harsh white glow across his face.

Leftovers. Rice. Half a tray of tofu. A slice of the cake from earlier in the week, slightly dried out at the edges.

His stomach twisted.

He wasn’t hungry.

He didn’t even want this.

But his hands were already moving. Pulling containers out one by one. His brain buzzed like static. His fingers were fast, mechanical, like they were doing something separate from him.

Cold food. Standing at the counter. Barely chewing.

Just get it in. Just get it over with.

Bite after bite. No plate. No pause. No thought.

His chest was tight. His eyes burned.

And somewhere, in the middle of it—he froze.

Footsteps.

Not heavy, not fast. Soft. Careful. Close.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and shoved the cake back into the fridge, slamming the door too hard. The sound cracked through the quiet like lightning.

The footsteps stopped.

Cole stood still, chest heaving, fingers gripping the countertop. The taste of sugar and salt clung to his tongue. Shame was thick in his throat.

The footsteps moved again—this time away.

He didn’t know who it was. Maybe someone going to the shared bathroom. Maybe someone who saw him and kept walking.

But it didn’t matter.

Because someone could have seen.

And that was enough to make his heart hammer all the way back to his room.

_______________

Zane had not meant to linger.

He had only intended to retrieve a glass of water. His internal schedule advised rest, but something in his system—something less mechanical, more intuitive—had urged him to stay awake just a little longer. Perhaps he had already known something was… off.

He heard the refrigerator door first.

That wasn’t unusual. Ninjas kept strange hours. But when he stepped into the hallway and saw the faint blue light spilling out from the kitchen, his movement slowed.

Then came the sound of plastic lids scraping against one another. A fork scraping. Then no fork. Just hurried chewing. Fast. Like there was no time. Like the food might vanish.

Zane paused at the edge of the hallway where the shadows met the golden spill of light. He did not announce himself.

Cole stood at the counter. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Head bowed low. His posture wasn’t defensive, but it wasn’t relaxed either. He looked… caught in something. Trapped.

Zane couldn’t see the expression on Cole’s face. Just the way his shoulders moved with each breath. Each bite.

Then the fridge slammed shut.

Zane’s systems flared briefly in response to the volume. He took a single step back, soundless, into the dark.

He didn’t know if Cole had seen him. He didn’t think so.

But he waited.

The footsteps came fast. Cole brushed past, transfixed on getting out, not noticing the nindroid a few feet away from him. His hoodie was pulled low, eyes down. Zane turned to say something—anything—but the words caught on a delay he didn’t understand.

He watched until Cole disappeared into the hall, the shadows swallowing him whole.

Zane remained there for a long time, unmoving. Processing.

Cole had said he wasn’t hungry.

Cole hadn’t been eating.

Cole had said he was fine.

Zane knew better than to assume. Knew better than to jump to conclusions.

But still—something about what he’d just seen struck him as wrong.

Deeply, quietly wrong.

He returned to the kitchen and turned on the light fully. The fridge door hung slightly ajar. Cake crumbs dotted the counter. A spoon had fallen to the floor.

Zane bent, picked it up, washed it with precision.

And then he stood in silence.

Staring at the cake container still left on the shelf.

Cold. Half-eaten.

Left behind.

_______________

Cole didn’t run.
But it felt like he had.

His chest heaved like he’d just finished sparring, like he’d sprinted laps around the monastery until his lungs burned—but he hadn’t. He’d only walked. Fast. Too fast.

His door clicked shut behind him. Not slammed. Not loud. Just final.

He stood there, still holding the paper towel he’d grabbed to wipe his mouth. His fingers trembled.

The kitchen had been too quiet. Too open. Too dangerous. The kind of place where sound bounced and footsteps echoed and someone—anyone—could turn a corner and see.

And worst of all, someone did.

Probably.

He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t looked. Couldn’t look. But he’d heard something—just a breath, a shift, the creak of a floorboard that didn’t belong to him. He didn’t know who it was. And now it didn’t matter. Because someone might’ve seen.

And the thought settled in his chest like a stone.

He’d failed them.

He was supposed to be strong. The reliable one. The foundation. What did it say about the team if even he couldn’t hold it together?

Somehow, he had ended up in the bathroom. He gripped the edge of the sink, fingers aching from how hard he held on.

He could still feel it in his throat. The sting. The hollow. His knees ached from the cold tile. His hoodie was damp at the collar, and he didn’t know if it was sweat or drool or both.

He was tired. Not the kind that sleep could fix. The kind that dragged at your bones.

The kind that whispered you’re not enough.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to pull himself together. Breathe in. Breathe out.

But the shame didn’t move. It clung to him, thick and invisible. Like smoke. Like guilt.

Guilt.

It curled in his stomach like something alive. Heavy. Sharp around the edges. He had to get rid of it. He had to.

His breathing quickened. His hands trembled as he pushed off the counter and stumbled back a step, knees weak like they might give out again. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it wouldn’t help. But he couldn’t sit with this feeling. He couldn’t let it stay.

He dropped to his knees before he could talk himself out of it.

The tile was cold under his legs. Too cold. Or maybe he was just too tired to care. His hands shook as he gripped the rim of the toilet, already regretting what he hadn’t even done yet.

But the guilt didn’t let go.

He leaned forward. His throat clenched on instinct, body resisting even as his mind barreled ahead. There was no real plan. No control. Just the pressure building behind his ribs and the ache of needing to undo what he’d done.

The first heave was dry, useless, painful. His body shook with the force of it, knuckles white where they gripped porcelain. His knees scraped against the floor, but he barely noticed.

The second came harder, tighter, but still nothing. Just a sharp spasm and a flood of tears he couldn’t stop. He choked back a breath and pulled one trembling hand from the toilet rim.

Two fingers. That was all it took.

His stomach turned violently.

And then it came—sharp and acidic. A rush of food and bile that burned on the way up. His eyes watered. His chest spasmed. And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

He gasped, coughed, spat. His forehead hit the toilet seat with a soft thud as he choked down another breath.

This was the part he hated most. Not the mess. Not the pain. But the in-between. The second where he questioned if he’d gone too far or not far enough.

His vision blurred. The bathroom spun.

And still, he waited.

Waited to feel better.

Waited to feel clean.

But all he felt was empty.

Not lighter. Not proud. Just drained—like something had been scooped out of him, and whatever was left wasn’t enough to hold him up.

He reached out blindly and flushed, the sound far too loud in the quiet.

Then he stayed there. On the floor. Shaking and still.

Like maybe if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t have to admit what he’d just done.

Like maybe if he stayed quiet enough, no one would ever know.

Eventually, the silence caught up to him.

The flush echoed dully in the small space, and then it was quiet again. Uncomfortably quiet. The kind of stillness that let thoughts creep back in and wrap themselves around his ribs like vines.

Cole stayed crouched for a moment longer, forehead resting against his arm, the porcelain cool and solid beneath his hands. His stomach ached—not from hunger, exactly, but from the way he’d forced it empty. From the way he always did, lately.

His mouth tasted bitter. His throat burned.

But worse than all of that was the way his chest felt. Hollow. Tight.

He pushed himself up slowly, legs unsteady. His hands fumbled for the sink handles, and he ran the water—cold, too cold, but it shocked the numbness just enough. He rinsed his mouth. Splashed his face. Scrubbed until his skin turned pink, like that could erase everything.

The mirror above the sink stared back at him.

He didn’t look at it.

He dried his hands with the towel by the door, movements automatic. Quiet. Controlled. He wiped down the counter, the edge of the sink, even though there was nothing visible to clean. He brushed his teeth. Swished water. Spat again.

Everything in its place.

Everything hidden.

He finally stepped back into his room and closed the bathroom door behind him. No lights. No sound. Just the soft creak of floorboards as he crossed to his bed and sat down hard.

Hoodie back on. Hood up.

He curled forward, elbows on his knees, and rested his head in his hands.

He felt lighter.

He felt awful.

But at least now, there was nothing left in him to betray him.

_______________

Cole woke with a jolt, his heart hammering before his brain even caught up.

The light spilling across the floor was too bright. Too high in the sky. The air didn’t have that early-morning chill anymore, and the hallway outside his room was quiet in a way that felt off.

He rolled over, eyes darting to the clock on his nightstand.

5:31 AM.

Thirty minutes until training.

He’d overslept.

Panic sparked like a match in his chest. He shoved the covers back and sat up too fast, dizzy for a second from the movement. His hoodie stuck to his back—he hadn’t even changed before collapsing into bed the night before. He barely remembered brushing his teeth. Everything after the bathroom was a blur.

How had he slept through his alarm? He never slept through his alarm.

His muscles ached in a way that didn’t feel like good pain. His head felt stuffed with cotton. His stomach… He didn’t want to think about his stomach.

He had twenty-nine minutes.

He shoved his legs into a pair of sweatpants that were already on the floor and grabbed the first clean hoodie he could find. No time for anything else. If he could just get outside and start stretching, maybe no one would notice.

He grabbed his staff from the corner, already heading toward the door—

Knock knock.

He froze. One hand on the doorknob. The worst possible time.

“Cole?” Nya’s voice. Calm, but edged with something a little too careful. “You in there?”

He hesitated, glancing back at himself in the mirror. His hair was a mess. His face looked… off. Pale, hollow-eyed. Sweat still clung to his hairline.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m here,” he said, voice too rough to sound casual. “Just—just getting ready.”

A pause.

“I brought you something,” she said. “Zane said you missed breakfast yesterday, and I figured you wouldn’t make time today either.”

His stomach twisted. Shame, maybe. Maybe something else.

“I’m not really—”

“I’ll just leave it here,” Nya interrupted, tone quiet but firm. “You don’t have to eat it. Just… don’t skip because you feel like you have to.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

The soft sound of a tray being set down outside his door reached him. Her footsteps didn’t fade right away. Then, finally, they did.

He stood there for a long second.

Then another.

Then three.

Finally, he opened the door.

The tray sat neatly on the ground. Just a small plate of plain toast, a few apple slices, and a cup of something hot—probably tea. It looked… harmless. Thoughtful. Not like a demand. Just a quiet offering.

He stared at it.

And then, without even thinking about it, he stepped over it and closed the door behind him.

_______________

The monastery hallways felt colder today. Maybe it was just him.

Cole’s footsteps echoed against the polished wood as he moved quickly, trying not to think about the tray he’d left behind. He hadn’t even looked back at it. Couldn’t. It sat there like a question he didn’t want to answer.

Outside, the courtyard was already lit with a soft golden wash of early morning sun. Zane and Kai were warming up near the far side, slow and controlled. Jay stretched near the fountain, halfway through talking to himself. Lloyd had arrived too, pacing through the beginning of a kata with robotic precision.

They looked calm. Normal.

Cole adjusted the hood over his head and made a beeline for the weapons rack, pretending he didn’t feel every eye shift toward him when he stepped into view.

“Morning,” Zane greeted. It wasn’t suspicious or sharp. Just even. Gentle.

“Hey,” Cole mumbled, grabbing a different, more weighted staff like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like his hands weren’t trembling slightly from lack of sleep and the lingering ghosts of last night.

Kai glanced at him. “You’re late.”

Cole’s grip tightened on the staff.

“Alarm didn’t go off,” he lied. “Didn’t mean to crash so hard last night.”

Jay scoffed from the other end of the courtyard. “You slept in? That’s a first.”

Cole forced a chuckle. “Guess miracles do happen.”

But it didn’t land right. His voice cracked a little at the end, and nobody laughed with him. Not even Jay.

Zane didn’t say anything, but he moved closer. Close enough to offer support if needed. Not enough to draw attention.

Cole started to stretch, pushing past the soreness in his joints. He could still do this. Still keep pace. If he worked harder than ever, maybe they’d stop looking at him like that. Like he might fall apart if they touched him.

He’d be fine. He had to be.

Master Wu entered a few minutes later, calm as always, and called them to formation.

Cole fell into place, eyes forward, heart pounding.

He could hold this together.

He had to.

Wu led them through their forms with quiet intensity, each movement more exacting than the last. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to command focus, and Cole locked in immediately, determined to keep up.

His muscles ached from the start.

It wasn’t a fresh, productive ache—it was deep, shaky, leftover exhaustion, the kind that settled into bone. But Cole didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. Every punch, every twist of the staff, every low stance—he hit them harder, sharper, faster.

If anyone noticed his foot slipping slightly during a pivot, they didn’t say anything.

If anyone saw how he clenched his jaw after a spin to keep from wobbling, they looked the other way.

But Cole felt it. All of it.

His lungs were too tight. His vision wavered at the edges when he turned his head too fast. His hoodie clung to his back like a second skin, soaked through before the warm-up even ended.

When Wu split them into pairs for sparring, Cole was the first to step forward.

“I’ll go with Jay,” he said quickly, voice just steady enough to pass.

Jay blinked, surprised. “Oh. Uh—sure?”

They squared off on the mats, and Cole forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t shake. Don’t stumble.

Jay cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Go easy on me, man. I’ve only had one cup of coffee.”

Cole nodded once, not smiling.

The first few exchanges were clean. Light strikes, quick blocks. Testing pace. But Cole pushed harder. Moved faster. His body screamed at him to stop, to slow down, but he shoved the warning aside. He needed to prove—something. Maybe just that he could still do this.

Jay started to fall behind.

“Dude,” he huffed, ducking a strike. “Okay, what are you—?”

Cole didn’t hear the rest. He lunged again, grip tight, arms burning.

Jay barely blocked in time.

“Cole—!”

Their staffs locked. Jay strained against the pressure. “Are you okay?”

Cole pushed harder.

And then the world tilted.

The next step didn’t land. His foot slipped—just slightly—but it threw off everything. His weight shifted wrong. His knee buckled.

He hit the mat with a thud that shook his ribs.

Everyone turned.

Jay knelt instantly. “Hey—hey, you good?”

Cole blinked. His vision swam. The ceiling looked too far away. His arms trembled as he tried to sit up.

Zane was already moving, quiet but fast. “Don’t force it,” he said, kneeling beside Jay. “Breathe first.”

“I’m fine,” Cole rasped. “I’m—just lost balance.”

“You didn’t eat,” Jay said. Not accusing. Not loud. Just… knowing.

Cole’s stomach twisted.

Wu approached, his face unreadable. “That’s enough sparring for now.”

“I can keep going,” Cole said, trying to push himself upright. But his body betrayed him—his arms shook too hard, and he sank back down to his elbow.

“No,” Wu said gently. “You will rest.”

The words weren’t harsh. But they felt like failure anyway.

Cole closed his eyes, jaw clenched, and tried not to feel the way the team was looking at him.

Tried not to hear the silence.

Tried not to fall apart right there on the mat.

The others had been dismissed. Wu gave no lecture. No drawn-out wisdom or pointed looks. Just a quiet wave of his hand and a soft, “That’s all for today.” That was somehow worse.

Cole sat on the edge of the mat, elbows on his knees, trying to breathe through the throb in his legs and the burn in his lungs. The dojo slowly emptied—footsteps, quiet murmurs, the hush of the door sliding shut behind Lloyd.

But not all of them left.

Zane stayed.

Of course he did.

Cole didn’t look at him. Just stared down at the floor like he could memorize the grain in the wood.

“You overextended your leg,” Zane said after a pause, voice neutral. “It’s likely a strain, but I can check it properly if you let me.”

“I’m fine,” Cole muttered.

“You said that yesterday.”

Cole’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sweats. “I just slipped.”

Zane crouched a few feet away, giving him space. “You didn’t slip. You pushed too hard on low energy and compromised your footing.”

Cole’s mouth tightened.

Silence stretched between them.

Zane didn’t push. Didn’t prod.

But then, quietly, “I saw you last night.”

Cole flinched.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just stared harder at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole.

“I didn’t mean to,” Zane said gently. “I was getting water. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“You should’ve said something,” Cole snapped before he could stop himself. His voice cracked. “Or looked away. Or… I don’t know.”

Zane didn’t react to the tone. “I did look away.”

Cole’s fists clenched.

“I didn’t know what I was seeing at first,” Zane continued. “But I knew it didn’t look right.”

Cole stood too fast. His leg twinged and he hissed, stumbling slightly before catching himself.

“I said I’m fine.”

Zane rose, still calm. “You’re not.”

Cole turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know.”

“I just needed a minute,” Cole said, more desperate now than angry. “I had a bad night. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. That’s all. That’s it.”

Zane’s expression didn’t shift. But his voice was softer. “That’s not nothing, Cole.”

Cole’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, the air around him suddenly too thick. He stared at the far wall, eyes glassy, trying to blink back the pressure building fast behind them.

“I can’t be the broken one,” he said, barely more than a breath. “Not me.”

Zane stepped forward—only a single pace. Measured. Careful. Like any more might cause something to crack.

“You’re not broken,” he said gently. “But you are allowed to need help.”

That made Cole look at him. Slowly. Like it hurt to move.

Zane’s expression didn’t shift. No pity. No fear. Just quiet steadiness, like he was anchoring the moment in place.

Cole didn’t answer.

His fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into the fabric of his sweats. He gave a quick shake of his head—small, stiff. Not quite a no. Not quite anything.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. But the words dropped like a stone. Heavy. Hollow. Less of a reassurance and more of a retreat.

Zane studied him, gaze flicking to the slight shake in Cole’s legs, the pallor of his skin, the sheen of sweat that hadn’t faded since the end of training.

He didn’t press. Not yet.

Instead, Zane simply nodded once, slow and measured. “Alright.”

Cole turned away, heading for the door without another word. His limp was slight, but it was there. And the hoodie hung too loose on his frame.

Zane didn’t move.

He just stood in the empty courtyard, watching the door swing shut behind him.

He still didn’t know exactly what was wrong.

But something was.

And whatever it was… it wasn’t going away.

Chapter Text

Zane did not sleep the way the others did, but he still knew the rhythms of a normal night.

He knew, for instance, that Cole hadn’t been sleeping properly in over a week.

At first, it had been subtle. A door opening past midnight. The faint creak of floorboards when the halls should have been silent. Water running for too long. The low, inconsistent sound of movement behind closed walls. Zane noted these patterns. Logged them. Not every irregularity warranted concern.

But then came the skipped meals.

The visible exhaustion.

The training sessions where Cole pushed harder than necessary, sweating through his hoodie before the warmup even ended. And more than once, Zane had heard quiet, uneven sounds from Cole’s room deep into the night—shuffling, pacing, muffled noises from his bathroom that didn’t quite fit the pattern of normal use.

He had not made assumptions. He knew better.

But then he saw it.

The kitchen. The binge. The frantic way Cole tore through leftovers like he hadn’t eaten in days, even though he insisted, again and again, that he simply “wasn’t hungry.” The way he’d bolted when he realized someone might have seen him, like shame had been trailing him the whole time.

Zane still didn’t know exactly what was going on. But something was unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And Cole was at the center of it.

Zane still didn’t understand exactly what was going on. But something was unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And Cole was at the center of it.

He stood alone in the courtyard for several minutes after Cole left, replaying everything. The late-night noise. The missed meals. The bruises that hadn’t come from training. The way Cole had moved that morning—tight, exhausted, brittle around the edges.

The look in his eyes when Zane said, “You’re not broken.”
Like he almost believed it.
And like he didn’t.

Zane glanced down at his internal readouts. He hadn’t moved in 132 seconds. That was unusual. He was typically more efficient with time. But something about standing still—being quiet—felt necessary right now. Like movement would shatter something he didn’t yet have the pieces for.

He ran another internal scan. Not on himself. On memory.

Wednesday, 3:04 a.m. — Water running in the pipes connected to Cole’s private bathroom.
Thursday, 12:47 a.m. — Fridge opening. Cold light. A door shutting too fast.
Saturday, 5:36 a.m. — Cole emerging early, eyes red, hoodie sleeves damp at the cuffs.
Sunday, 2:13 a.m. — The sound of something hitting tile. Then silence.
Last night — The fridge. The frantic pace. The slam. The retreat.

Zane didn’t like guessing. Guesses were imprecise, and imprecision could lead to harm. But he was trained to recognize patterns. And even without a clear label for what was happening, he knew this:

Cole was not okay.

And whatever this was, it wasn’t fading. It was growing—pulling Cole deeper into something Zane couldn’t see the full shape of yet.

But he intended to.

Carefully. Quietly.

Because Cole didn’t want anyone to know. Not yet. And Zane… Zane had always respected the unspoken lines people drew around themselves. But there was a difference between respecting privacy and ignoring pain.

So he would keep watching.
He would keep listening.
And when the moment came—if it came—he would be ready.

_______________

Zane moved silently through the monastery kitchen just before dawn. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint hiss of the stove were the only sounds in the stillness. He had risen early, as always, but today his mind was occupied differently.

The others would be up soon, and breakfast was a quiet ritual they all relied on, even if they didn’t always admit it. Zane liked the calm before the day’s noise—the ordered chopping, the careful measuring of ingredients, the steady rhythm of cooking. Today, he would make sure everyone had what they needed.

He glanced at the tray Nya had left outside Cole’s door. He carefully opened the fridge and placed it back inside, wanting it to stay fresh. Nya’s kindness was clear, but Zane worried it might go untouched.

Zane turned back to the stove and started with the eggs. He cracked them gently into a bowl and whisked them with precise, slow movements. He peeled some apples, cutting thin slices for the tray he was assembling for Cole.

Cole’s habits had been on his mind more than usual. The missed meals. The exhaustion. The way his hoodie hung too loose, the slight limp in his step. He wasn’t just tired—something was wrong.

As he worked, Zane prepared the rest of the breakfast. Jay’s favorite—spiced fruit and toasted bread. Kai’s portion piled high with protein. Lloyd’s measured carefully, each item placed with robotic precision, a reflection of the nindroid’s own methodical nature.

When it came to Cole’s plate, Zane chose carefully: plain toast, a few apple slices, some grilled tofu lightly seasoned. Nothing fancy. Something simple and easy to eat, without pressure.

He placed the food neatly on a small tray, along with a cup of warm tea. No note. No message. Just the quiet offering of nourishment.

Zane paused, glancing at the small tray. He thought about how Cole had refused the breakfast the day before, how the room outside his door had been eerily silent except for the occasional soft shuffle. He wondered if Cole would eat today.

Finishing the last preparations, Zane set the trays out on the counter. The rest of the team would arrive soon, their footsteps echoing in the hallways, breaking the stillness.

For a moment, Zane lingered near the door to Cole’s room, debating whether to leave the tray just outside, or to wait and see if Cole came out. In the end, he placed it gently on a low table nearby, where it would be visible but not intrusive.

Zane took one last look at the tray he’d prepared and stepped into the hall, intent on calling the others. But before he could take more than a few steps, he heard the faint creak of floorboards behind him.

He turned.

Cole stood in the doorway.

His expression was light, almost too light—like the weight of this morning had never touched him at all. His eyes sparkled with a forced energy, and his smile was wide—bubbly, even—like he was hiding something. The hoodie hung loosely, but he moved with an easy confidence that didn’t quite match what Zane had seen earlier.

“Morning,” Cole said, voice bright, almost teasing.

Zane’s chest tightened. Hope fluttered briefly — maybe this was a sign.

The others followed soon after, filling the kitchen with their usual morning chatter. Zane distributed the trays carefully, everyone grabbing their food and settling at the table.

Cole took his tray with an easy grin, but as they began to eat, Zane noticed him pick at his food. Nibbling at the toast, cutting tiny bites of apple, and pushing the tofu around without really eating much of it.

Zane’s gaze lingered on Cole, trying to read the signs beneath the surface.

_______________

He didn’t see it coming.

One moment, Cole was laughing — easy, light, almost normal. He’d cleared most of his plate. Said something quick and sarcastic to Kai. Jay shot back with a quip that sent Lloyd into a wheezing laugh. It felt like balance was finally returning.

Zane had even smiled. Not a calculated one. A real one.

But then Cole froze.

No warning. No shift in tone. Just a full-body stillness, as if something had dropped into his chest like a stone.

Zane’s smile faded. He sat up straighter, watching closely.

Cole’s eyes weren’t focused anymore. They were somewhere else. Somewhere deep. His hand, still holding his fork, had gone stiff. His shoulders hunched just slightly — barely noticeable to anyone else, but Zane saw it.

Then he stood. Too fast.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered. Not looking at anyone.

He didn’t wait for a response. The scrape of his tray being pushed aside. The soft clatter of his fork. And then the shuffle of hurried footsteps across tile as he left the room.

Zane was already rising.

“Cole?” Jay called after him, blinking. “You good?”

But Cole was gone.

Zane moved without thinking.

“Zane?” Nya asked softly. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll check on him.”

And then he was out the door.

_______________

Cole didn’t make it far before the tears stung behind his eyes.

Not from sadness. Not even guilt. Just the force of holding everything in.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He just knew he had to get out. Had to be alone. Had to get it out. Get all of it out.

He wasn’t sure what had set it off.

Maybe it was Kai joking about seconds. Maybe it was Lloyd saying he was glad to see Cole “eating again.” Maybe it was Jay teasing, “What, trying to bulk up even more?”

He couldn’t tell.

He just knew that every word was a needle. Sharp and familiar. Like echoes of his childhood. Of dinner tables back home. Of uncles making comments they thought were funny. Of his dad saying, “No dessert if you’re going to keep packing it on like that.”

Family. The ones who were supposed to protect you. And all they did was plant the voice that told you your body was a failure.

He barely registered his own door until he was unlocking it with shaky hands.

In. Close the door. Lock it. Quiet. Fast.

His chest was heaving by the time he stumbled to the bathroom.

_______________

He reached Cole’s room just seconds later.

He could hear the lock click shut on the other side.

He knocked, twice. “Cole?”

No answer.

Zane’s sensors picked up faint movement inside — a shuffle of fabric. The sound of the bathroom door opening.

He knocked again. Louder this time. “Cole, please open the door.”

Still nothing.

Zane’s internal systems buzzed with quiet warning. His emotion protocols were lighting up in too many directions at once — concern, confusion, protectiveness, helplessness. He hated helplessness the most.

He pressed his hand flat to the door. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… please don’t do anything alone.”

Still nothing.

Just silence.

_______________

He sat on the floor of his bathroom, knees pulled in, hoodie sleeves pushed up and hands buried in his hair.

The world felt too loud in his skull. The thoughts came in waves. You ate too much. You ruined it. They saw. They know.

He could still feel the food in his stomach — feel the weight of it, the betrayal of it. The weakness. Like it had been a test and he’d failed.

Laughter still echoed in his ears. Words he should have laughed at. Words he usually laughed at.

He’d nearly made it.

Nearly cleaned the plate.

Nearly convinced them.

But it didn’t matter now.

He was alone again. And that was safer. Cleaner. Quiet.

Except—

knock knock.

Zane.

Of course it was Zane.

Cole didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He pressed his forehead to the cabinet door beside the sink and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Please don’t do anything alone,” came Zane’s voice through the door. Gentle. Too gentle.

It made something in Cole’s chest twist.

He didn’t want help. He didn’t deserve help.

But still… his hand reached out and hovered over the doorknob.

Shaking. Paused.

And then dropped.

He couldn’t open it.

Not yet.

_______________

He stood at the door longer than he should have.

Every second that passed added more to the sinking feeling in his core. But he didn’t knock again. He wouldn’t push Cole into more retreat. That would only widen the gap.

Zane finally stepped back, just one pace. He stared at the wood grain of the door, as if it could tell him something Cole hadn’t.

His voice came softer this time.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

No reply. Just silence.

Still, he waited another moment before turning down the hall — slow, reluctant.

And behind him, inside that room, Cole didn’t move either.

_______________

The sun had shifted low in the sky by the time the afternoon quiet settled over the monastery. Mid-day training had ended just about a hour ago, and the scent of lunch—now cold—still clung faintly to the air.

The common room was scattered with soft signs of a slow day. Jay sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with wires. Kai dozed on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes. Lloyd leaned against the window frame, quiet for once, watching something far beyond the trees.

Cole’s spot was empty.

Again.

“Has anyone seen Cole?” Lloyd asked, not turning around.

Jay didn’t look up from his project. “Not since Master Wu beat us up with his stick.”

“Didn’t he say he was going to shower after training?” Kai mumbled, still half-asleep. “Maybe he just… forgot lunch?”

Zane, seated at the table, looked up.

“No,” he said. “He didn’t forget.”

The others went quiet.

Jay glanced up, brow furrowed. “Okay. Weird tone.”

“He’s been skipping meals,” Zane said plainly. “This wasn’t an isolated incident.”

Nya stepped into the room right then, toweling off her hands. “He skipped breakfast yesterday,” she stated. “But how long has this actually been going on?”

Zane met her eyes. “About a week. Maybe longer.”

There was a beat of silence.

Nya’s brow knit, lips tightening. “He said he wasn’t hungry.”

“He keeps saying that,” Zane said softly.

Lloyd turned, expression shifting. “Do you think he’s sick?”

“I’m not sure,” Zane admitted. “But… it’s more than that.”

Jay shifted uncomfortably. “He’s been weird lately. Quieter than usual. And he didn’t even finish his food this morning, right? I thought that was just nerves or something…”

“I tried to get him to talk to me earlier,” Nya said. “But he brushed it off. Said he was fine.”

Zane’s gaze lowered. “He’s hiding something.”

The group sat in silence again, the weight of it settling.

Then, softly, Nya said, “We should talk to him.”

Zane didn’t look away. “He’s not ready.”

“But something’s wrong,” she said. “We all feel it.”

Zane nodded once, slowly. “I know.”

He stood, picking up a teacup still sitting out from lunch and began stacking dishes with a precision that felt too practiced. His eyes flicked toward the hallway—toward Cole’s room.

“He just needs time,” he said. “But I don’t think we can ignore this much longer.”

Nya crossed her arms, thoughtful, watching Zane’s expression.

“Then we wait,” she said quietly. “But not forever.”

Chapter Text

The hallway was cold beneath his feet.

Cole stood still, half-shadowed near the corner just beyond the common room, where the voices drifted through the slightly ajar door. He hadn’t meant to listen. Really. He just… hadn’t moved fast enough after slipping out of his room. And now it was too late.

Their words filtered in, muffled but clear enough.

“Maybe he just forgot lunch?”
“He’s been skipping meals.”
“He didn’t even finish his food this morning…”

Cole’s pulse pounded in his ears.

They’re talking about me.

His breath hitched.

He stepped back, quiet as he could manage, but the air felt too loud around him. Like even breathing was going to give him away.

“But something’s wrong,” someone said—Nya, he thought. “We all feel it.”

A beat of silence.

Then Zane, calm and steady: “I know.”

Cole’s heart dropped.

He turned. Fast. His shoulder clipped the wall and he winced, but didn’t stop. He moved down the hall as quickly and quietly as he could, teeth gritted, chest tight.

Too obvious.

He was being too obvious.

He should’ve smiled more. Talked more. Played it off. He thought he had. He thought he was doing better.

He barely made it into his room before the panic really hit.

The door slammed shut behind him, not quiet, but not loud enough to alert the others. He stumbled forward, breath catching in his throat. His hands trembled. His whole body felt like it was vibrating beneath his skin.

“No no no—” he muttered, pacing in tight, frantic circles. “They weren’t supposed to notice. I fixed it. I fixed it—”

He stopped short, shoving a pile of books off his desk with a loud crash. His breath came fast now, too fast, not enough air getting in.

His fingers curled into his hair.

Stop. Breathe. Get it together.

But he couldn’t.

The fear twisted. Morphed. Turned to anger.

He grabbed the nearest object—some decorative wooden box—and threw it. It cracked against the wall and split. Something else tumbled off the shelf after it.

He didn’t stop there.

Papers scattered. A drawer got yanked out and flung across the room. He shoved over the chair. Punched the wall. Swore under his breath when the pain shot up his arm.

He just wanted it to stop. The noise in his head. The pressure in his chest. The feeling that he was failing at hiding what he was.

His foot hit something as he backed up.

A soft thud.

He looked down.

A frame lay face-down on the floor. Glass cracked.

For a moment, he didn’t breathe.

He dropped to his knees and picked it up slowly, carefully turning it over.

The photograph inside was old—creased and slightly faded. But the smile on her face was still clear. So was the way her hand curled around his shoulder. His mother’s eyes, warm and proud, staring right at him.

The crack ran right through her face.

Cole’s hands shook.

“What would you say,” he whispered, voice raw, “if you could see me now?”

His throat closed. The picture slipped from his fingers, landing in his lap.

He curled over it, pulling his knees in, and didn’t try to stop the tears.

_______________

The crash was loud.

Sharp. Splintering. Then another, heavier sound—like something had been shoved, or thrown.

All of them froze.

Jay looked up from his video-console, hurriedly placing it down. “Was that…?”

Lloyd stood partway from his seat. “Cole?”

Nya was already on her feet. Her chest had gone tight, a cold worry curling fast in her gut. She took two quick steps toward the hallway before pausing, heart thudding.

No more noise.

No cry for help. No shouts. Just silence.

But it wasn’t a good silence. It was the kind that settles after something breaks.

“We shouldn’t go in,” she said quietly.

The others turned to her.

“What?” Kai asked, brows drawing together. “Nya, what if he’s—”

“He’s not hurt,” she said. “Not physically. If he wanted us to come running, he’d have said something. He… needs space right now.”

Lloyd hesitated. “But—”

“No,” Nya said, more firmly. “I mean it. Don’t crowd him. Not right now.”

They exchanged uncertain looks, but none of them moved.

Nya exhaled slowly, stepping back from the hallway.

Inside, her thoughts were anything but still.

She should know what to do. She always did. She was the problem solver. The one who came up with the plans and pulled the team together when things started to spiral. But this—

This wasn’t a villain. This wasn’t a crisis she could punch or trap or outmaneuver. This was Cole. Her friend. Her brother in all the ways that counted. And he was slipping through the cracks right in front of her.

He wasn’t okay. And she didn’t know how to fix it.

Later, after the others had scattered, she found Zane by the koi pond, watching the water ripple in measured waves. He looked calm, but he turned his head the moment she approached.

“You’re thinking the same thing I am,” she said.

Zane nodded once. “He’s not just tired. Or stressed. Something deeper is happening.”

Nya crossed her arms, biting the inside of her cheek. “I hate this. Sitting back, doing nothing—while he falls apart in the next room.”

“We’re not doing nothing,” Zane said gently. “We’re gathering information. We’re assessing the best way to reach him without causing further harm.”

She looked at him sharply. “You already did reach him, didn’t you? You saw something. Last night.”

Zane hesitated, then nodded. “I did. But I didn’t fully understand what I saw.”

“And now?” she asked.

“I have a better sense,” he said, quiet. “But I don’t want to misstep. If we confront him too early, he might pull further away.”

Nya was silent.

She knew he was right. But it didn’t make it easier.

“Then we do it slowly,” she said at last. “Carefully. This week, we keep watch. We check in. We try to draw him out a little at a time. And if it gets worse…” She trailed off, jaw tight.

Zane finished for her. “We intervene.”

Nya nodded. “Exactly.”

The koi flicked their tails, gliding just beneath the surface.

Nya watched them for a long moment, arms still crossed. The weight in her chest didn’t ease—but she could breathe again. A little.

“We won’t lose him,” she said softly. “Not on my watch.”

Zane didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t look away.

And for now, that was enough.

_______________

His eyes were dry.

They shouldn’t have been. Not after the way he’d cried. Not after the way his chest had caved in and his hands had shaken and he’d sunk to the floor like he might vanish into it. Not after the photo.

But they were.

Dry, sore, useless.

Cole lay curled on his side, back to the wall, hoodie bunched around him like armor. The blankets had been pulled half off the bed in the chaos—one corner trailed across the floor like a white flag he didn’t mean to wave. His arm was tucked under his head, his knees drawn close to his chest, and he was smaller like this. Smaller than the body everyone saw. Smaller than the space he took up.

The picture frame was still broken.

Shards of glass glittered beneath the dresser where it had landed. The photo was bent but intact—just slightly creased, like it had flinched when it hit the floor. He hadn’t moved it. Couldn’t bring himself to. It still lay half-visible on the wood, her face just barely catching the light.

His mother’s smile.

Gentle. Whole. Still.

She would’ve known what to say. She always did.

Cole stared at the far corner of the room, past the cluttered desk, past the training gear left untouched. He didn’t blink much. Just breathed, shallow and even, like if he disturbed the air too much it would all come crashing back again.

What would she say?

Would she be disappointed? Scared?

Would she even recognize him?

He shifted slightly, burying his face into the crook of his arm. His body ached—tension curled deep in his muscles, like it had been stitched into him. His throat felt raw. His chest hollow.

He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to feel any of it.

But it was still there.

The fear. The shame. The memory of voices—“you’re gonna eat that too?”, “big guy, you look like you must be starving”, “you know that’s your third helping, right?”

He shut his eyes.

His stomach turned, but not from hunger. That had passed hours ago. This was different. Shame that could curl in your gut like acid if you let it.

He hadn’t meant to overhear them.

He hadn’t meant to fall apart again.

But now, lying in the ruins of it—quiet, shaking, broken in all the ways he didn’t have names for—Cole wasn’t sure how to put himself back together.

So he didn’t try.

He just stayed there.

Still.

Silent.

And alone.

His fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket, gripping it tight like it could hold him together if he just held on hard enough. But nothing felt stable. Not the bed beneath him. Not the air in his lungs. Not even his name in his own head.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt okay in his body.

Not just tolerable. Not just numb. Okay.

It was always too much. Too heavy. Too visible. Too loud. He could feel the weight of it—his body—like a costume he didn’t fit into anymore. Like someone else’s skin that he couldn’t shed, no matter how many meals he skipped or hours he trained or nights he clawed through shame just to end up exactly where he started.

Still him.

Still too much.

His breathing hitched, and he pressed the heel of his hand hard into his chest, like he could keep everything from rising again.

He didn’t want to cry.

He couldn’t cry. Not again. Not today. His face already felt too raw, his eyes too strained. But the ache hadn’t left. It just hovered there, like a shadow behind his ribs.

From the floor, glass caught a glint of sunlight. It landed on the corner of the photo—his mom’s hand resting on his shoulder, the two of them smiling, caught mid-laugh. He couldn’t remember what they’d been laughing about. Just that it had been real.

That day, her voice hadn’t sounded tired.

That day, he hadn’t flinched when someone touched his back.

That day, food had just been food, not punishment. Not a secret. Not war.

He wished he could go back.

He wished he could step into that photo and live in it—just for a while. Before things got hard. Before things got quiet. Before every mirror felt like it was lying to him and telling the truth all at once.

A soft creak echoed in the hall. Someone’s footsteps, distant. Faint. Then silence again.

Cole didn’t move.

Let them think he was asleep. Let them think he was training. Let them think whatever they wanted. So long as they didn’t open that door.

Because if they did—

They’d see the shattered glass. The broken frame. The blankets half on the floor. The photo. Him.

And he didn’t think he could handle that.

Not yet.

But the First Spinjitzu Master always had other plans.

A knock rang through the room.

Soft. Barely there.

Cole’s whole body locked. The sound hit him like a punch to the gut. Of course. Perfect timing. His room was a disaster. He was a disaster. And now someone was knocking.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

A pause.

Then—

“…Cole?”

Lloyd.

Of course it was Lloyd.

The kid-turned-teenager. Son of the dark lord. Master of destruction. The one who carried his legacy like it was a burden too heavy to name.

Cole had always seen him as a little brother. Maybe not by blood, but in every way that mattered. Lloyd, who always had a grin for anyone who needed it. Who somehow made leadership look effortless even when it clearly wasn’t. Cole was more internal—more guarded. But Lloyd? Lloyd let people in like it was second nature.

And even with all his brightness, he still worried. Still noticed.

Cole shut his eyes.

Lloyd’s voice was cautious, a gentle thread of sound through the door. Like he already knew he wasn’t supposed to be here—but couldn’t help trying anyway.

Cole didn’t answer.

He just lay still, every muscle tense beneath his skin, heart beating like a war drum in his chest.

He didn’t want Lloyd to see this.

Didn’t want anyone to see this.

But now?

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep hiding it.

From behind the door, Lloyd’s voice returned—soft, hesitant. “I… we heard something earlier. Just wanted to check in.”

Cole pressed his forehead into the pillow, jaw tight.

No.

Not now. Not Lloyd. Not when everything still felt like it was caving in.

Lloyd knocked again, just once. “You don’t have to talk. I just… I was worried.”

Cole didn’t answer.

The silence felt alive. Thick. Heavy. And behind it, the echo of that damn photo laughing at him from the floor.

He sat up too fast. A dizzy wave of panic hit him, but he shoved it down.

“Go away, Lloyd.”

His voice was hoarse. Not mean. Just… tired.

“I’m fine.”

The lie scraped on the way out.

A shuffle from the other side of the door. But no footsteps retreating.

“…Okay,” Lloyd said finally. “Just—if you want to talk. Or not talk. I’ll be in the courtyard.”

Another pause.

Then footsteps. Soft and slow. Fading.

Gone.

Cole stayed where he was, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

And that—somehow—that was worse.

He curled in tighter, arms wrapped around his knees, pressing his face into the space between.

Because the thing about someone caring?

Is that it’s harder to keep falling apart when someone might still be there to catch you.

And Cole wasn’t sure if he was ready for that.

Not yet.

In Zane’s words, he’s not ready.

_______________

Lloyd’s footsteps were soft as he walked away, but to him, they felt impossibly loud.

Every step felt wrong.

He hadn’t meant to make anything worse. He just wanted to help—say something, offer something. Even just be there. But whatever he’d walked in with, whatever intention he had… it hadn’t landed. Not the way he’d hoped.

He stepped into the courtyard, the evening air cool against his skin. It was around 5 pm as he far as was aware. The sun had climbed lower, leading the shadows back onto the stone paths. Normally, this was where he came to clear his head. But not today.

Not when his thoughts were still stuck back in that hallway.

Back behind that door.

He rubbed the back of his neck and sat down on the edge of the steps, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced. His eyes wandered, unfocused. A few birds called overhead. Wind tugged at the banners hanging from the pillars. The monastery was quiet—but it wasn’t peaceful.

He kept hearing Cole’s voice in his head.

Not even the words—just the tone.

Flat. Tired. Not like him.

I’m fine.

But Lloyd wasn’t stupid. And Cole wasn’t just fine. He’d been off for a while now. Quieter. Smaller. Like he was trying to take up less space.

Like he didn’t want to be seen.

And Lloyd hated that he hadn’t noticed sooner. Or maybe he had, and he’d just ignored it because it was easier. Because it was Cole. Cole who was strong. Cole who was fine.

Lloyd let out a slow breath and let his head drop into his hands.

“Why won’t you just let us help you?” he whispered.

The breeze didn’t answer.

Neither did the person he cared about most.

Lloyd rubbed at his eyes and let his hands fall into his lap. He didn’t cry—he wasn’t going to cry—but the ache sat heavy behind his ribs. Like there was something inside him trying to split open.

He heard footsteps.

Soft ones.

Not rushed. Not stomping. Just… hesitant.

Lloyd froze.

Please, he thought. Please let it be him.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Just listened as the steps approached—closer, closer—until he finally let himself glance up.

And there he was.

Cole.

Disheveled. Hoodie sleeves pushed up like he’d been tugging at them. His hair was a mess, the curls flattened on one side. His face was puffy—not red, not blotchy like it had just happened, but swollen enough to tell a story. A quiet kind of sadness that had already passed through and left damage in its wake.

Lloyd didn’t say a word.

He didn’t trust his voice not to crack.

Cole didn’t either.

He just sat down next to him on the steps. Slow. Careful. Like the silence between them was a thread he didn’t want to snap.

They didn’t look at each other. Not at first.

They just sat.

And for the first time all day, Lloyd didn’t feel quite so helpless.

Because Cole had come out.

And that—without any explanation, without any confession—meant something.

So Lloyd stayed quiet.

Letting the moment settle between them like dust in sunlight.

And for now, that was enough.

The wind stirred gently through the courtyard trees. Leaves whispered above them, brushing against one another like they knew to keep quiet too.

Lloyd didn’t move.

Neither did Cole.

They sat like that for a while—side by side, knees drawn slightly in, shadows cast long by the midafternoon light. Time felt weird in the monastery. Like it could stop and start whenever it wanted.

Lloyd didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever fragile thing had brought Cole here.

Cole’s fingers picked absently at the frayed edge of his sleeve. His foot tapped once. Then stopped. Then tapped again.

Eventually—finally—he spoke.

“…You didn’t have to wait out here.”

His voice was low. Rough. Like it hadn’t been used in hours. Maybe longer. Even though Lloyd had spoken to him not too long ago, the thought still crossed his mind.

Lloyd let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I didn’t mind.” He didn’t know how long he was sitting out here. It felt like a few minutes, but he did note that the sun was lower than when he first sat down.

Cole gave a small nod. Just once.

Silence stretched again—but different this time. Less brittle.

“…I’m not good at this,” Cole added after a moment, eyes fixed somewhere on the stone tiles beneath their feet.

Lloyd turned his head, just slightly. “At talking?”

Cole huffed something like a laugh. “Yeah. That.”

He didn’t explain more. Didn’t clarify.

But Lloyd didn’t need him to.

“Then don’t talk,” he said gently. “Not until you want to.”

Another pause. Then—

“Okay.”

Soft. Barely more than breath. But it was something.

Cole leaned back on his hands, eyes still far away. Lloyd stayed right beside him, grounded and patient. He didn’t push, didn’t pry.

Because Cole had come out.

And for Lloyd, he’d count that as a win in his book.

Chapter Text

After his talk with Lloyd the night before, Cole had slipped back to his room in silence. The door shut behind him like a weight, and the comfort he’d found beside Lloyd faded the moment he was alone.

He wished he’d stayed longer. Lloyd hadn’t pushed him. He hadn’t asked questions or expected anything. He’d just sat there — quiet, patient, present. And that had meant more than Cole could explain.

Lloyd had told him to take his time. To speak when he was ready. But now, in the quiet aftermath, guilt curled in Cole’s chest. He wasn’t getting better. He wasn’t making things easier for anyone. The others were worried — he could see it in their eyes, feel it in the silence that followed him through the halls, in that conversation he’d overheard.

And yet… they still gave him space. Still offered him kindness like it cost them nothing.

He didn’t know how to carry that.

His mother had always told him to speak up when something was wrong. To take care of himself the way he’d look out for someone else. Even when she was sick — especially then — she’d reminded him that strength wasn’t about pushing through the pain. It was knowing when to ask for help.

Do the right thing, Cole.

He could still remember the way she said it. Calm. Honest. Like it was the simplest truth in the world.

But this didn’t feel simple.

And he wasn’t doing the right thing. Not by her. Not by his team. Not even by himself.

Sleep didn’t come easy. When it did, it was thin and restless. Every time he closed his eyes, it felt like his thoughts tried to climb out of him. Loud. Sharp. Constant.

So when morning came, Cole woke up already exhausted.

His limbs felt like stone. His head swam with a dull ache that refused to fade. He rolled over, hoping for more sleep, but his body ached too much to get comfortable. His stomach churned with the kind of nausea that only ever came when he hadn’t eaten — or eaten too much — and he couldn’t tell which was worse anymore.

For a few minutes, he didn’t move. Just stayed there, face pressed to the pillow, hoping the weight in his chest would ease up.

It didn’t.

His eyes drifted toward the faint morning light spilling in through the curtains — too bright, too high. His stomach twisted again, sharper this time. Something was wrong. It felt wrong.

He turned his head and glanced at the clock.

7:38 a.m.

His blood ran cold.

Training.

He was late. So late. Training always started at six. They were always up by five-thirty. Why hadn’t anyone knocked? Why hadn’t someone yelled? They always yelled.

Cole sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. His vision tilted, and the weight in his chest roared to life. He rubbed his eyes, heart thudding. He wasn’t just tired — he was wrecked. But that didn’t matter. He’d missed training.

Why didn’t they wake me?

A part of him knew the answer — he looked like hell. Probably sounded like hell, too. But that only made his chest ache more.

Were they pitying him now?

Thinking he was fragile?

Like he couldn’t handle basic routines?

He ran a hand through his tangled hair and gritted his teeth. Fine. If he was going to get on their case about leaving him out of training, he wasn’t going to look like a half-dead mess doing it. He hauled himself off the bed and headed for the shower, limbs aching, head spinning.

The water was cold at first. He didn’t care. He stood under it too long, trying to blink the exhaustion out of his eyes and rub the weight from his chest. It didn’t work. But by the time he was dressed, hair towel-dried, hoodie pulled over his frame, he looked okay.

Not great. Not rested. But okay.

He could yell at them looking like that.

With a final glance in the mirror — one that lingered too long on the shadows under his eyes and the way his hoodie hung off his shoulders — Cole turned and left the room.

The walk to the kitchen felt longer than usual. Like the halls themselves knew he’d missed something. Like they were whispering behind his back.

He ignored it.

He pushed open the door.

_______________

Earlier that morning, the hallway was still dim, filled with the quiet stillness that came before the first clang of practice mats and shouted sparring calls.

Nya stood outside Cole’s door.

She didn’t knock.

She didn’t move.

She just stood there, arms crossed, half-tempted to raise her hand and tap against the wood — just once. Just to say hey, time to go. Just to keep things normal.

But things weren’t normal.

Hadn’t been for a while.

She bit the inside of her cheek, glancing down the hall toward the others. Lloyd’s door still closed. Zane was already in the courtyard prepping dummies. Kai was probably still unconscious. Jay had passed her yawning and rubbing his eyes a few minutes ago, but he hadn’t asked about Cole.

Not out loud, anyway.

The truth was, they were all worried.

Cole was burning out. She could see it in the way he moved lately — like his limbs weighed more than they should. In the way he smiled at them with tired eyes. In the way he disappeared during meals, pushed too hard during warmups, tried too hard to seem okay.

And she knew pushing him now would only make it worse.

So instead of knocking, she whispered to herself, “Just today.”

One day.

Just this once.

Let him sleep. Let him breathe.

She turned and walked to the courtyard, wind tugging gently at her ponytail, heart tugging harder in her chest.

_______________

Now, the kitchen was quieter than usual.

Plates clinked. Someone chewed too loud. Someone else hadn’t touched their food. The air wasn’t heavy, not exactly, but it felt like everyone was waiting for something — or someone.

So when footsteps sounded down the hall — quick, firm, a little too sharp — they all turned, almost as one.

Cole entered the room like nothing was wrong.

He was freshly showered. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair still damp and curling a little at the ends. His eyes were shadowed, but he smiled, like he meant it.

“Morning,” he said. Bright. Too bright.

And for a second, they believed him.

Jay blinked at him. Lloyd shifted in his seat. Kai glanced at Nya, who said nothing. Zane, already seated, watched Cole with a soft neutrality that wasn’t quite concern — but wasn’t not concern either.

Cole moved easily, casually — grabbed a tray, scooped food onto his plate, made a dumb comment about Jay’s bedhead that made Lloyd huff a small laugh.

It was… normal.

Or it tried to be.

He sat, started eating. Fork to plate. Plate to mouth.

He was eating.

But not really.

Because he laughed too hard. And when he chewed, it was mechanical. Small bites. Always watching. Always talking. Filling silences before they could settle.

And eventually, Cole’s plate was almost clean.

The moment before it happened, no one could’ve predicted it.

But later, they’d all realize they felt it.

The tension spike.

The shift.

It was like the air had changed—like the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. Subtle, but sharp.

Cole stood.

Too fast. Too stiff. Like his body was moving ahead of his mind.

He set down his half-empty mug with careful precision, too quiet for someone who usually moved with weight and presence.

The silence spread.

Zane noticed first. Then Nya. Then the others.

Kai straightened. Lloyd paused mid-sentence.

Cole didn’t look at any of them.

“When were you gonna tell me?” His voice was even. Too even.

Zane blinked. “Tell you what?”

Cole looked up then.

“You didn’t wake me up this morning. For training.”

The room went still.

Nya shifted in her seat. “We thought… you needed the rest.”

“You decided that for me?”

“It wasn’t like that—” Zane started.

Cole leaned forward over the table, hands clasped into tight fists. “Then what was it like?”

“We just—Cole, you’ve been tired. We thought it’d help,” Nya said carefully.

“Tired?” Cole echoed. “You mean lazy.”

“No one said that.”

“But that’s what you meant.”

His voice was louder now. Sharper around the edges.

Jay opened his mouth to speak but shut it again. Even Kai didn’t try to jump in. Cole had never acted like this before.

“I’m fine,” Cole said—again. “I don’t need rest. I don’t need breaks. I’ve been pulling my weight just like everyone else.”

“Cole,” Zane said quietly, “this isn’t about that. No one’s judging you.”

But Cole laughed—short and humorless. “You left me out. You didn’t think I’d notice? Or care?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Nya repeated. “It was one morning.”

“Exactly. One morning I needed. One morning you took. You didn’t ask.”

His voice cracked at the end. The anger wasn’t just anger anymore. There was something else underneath—fear, maybe. Shame. Hurt.

“We were just trying to help,” Zane said, more gently now.

“Well, don’t.”

The words landed like a blade.

Cole stepped back, jaw clenched, chest heaving. His hands were shaking.

He turned, shoving his chair in harder than he needed to. The legs scraped loud against the floor.

“I don’t need help.”

And then he was gone.

The door slammed louder than it ever had before.

No one moved. No one spoke.

It felt like something had shattered in the center of the room, and they were all just sitting there staring at the pieces.

Kai let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “What… was that?”

Jay swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen him like that. Ever.”

“He was mad,” Lloyd said, almost to himself. His voice was quiet. “Really mad.”

“He was scared,” Zane corrected softly.

That made everyone pause.

Nya had her arms crossed, but not in her usual defensive way. More like she was holding herself together.

“He thought we were trying to take something from him,” she murmured. “Not protect him.”

“We were,” Kai said. “Trying to protect him. He’s been—off. You’ve all seen it.”

“Of course we have,” Jay said, running a hand through his hair. “But that wasn’t just ‘off.’ That was… I don’t know what that was.”

“A warning,” Zane said, standing slowly. His expression was unreadable.

“A warning?” Lloyd echoed, brows furrowing.

Zane nodded once. “That he’s slipping.”

No one had an answer for that.

Nya looked toward the hallway, jaw tight. “We need to move carefully. If we push too hard…”

“He’ll shut down,” Zane finished. “Or worse.”

Lloyd shifted in his seat, the weight of Cole’s words still pressing on his chest. “What do we do now?”

Everyone looked at each other.

No one had a solid answer.

But the truth hung between them anyway—unspoken, heavy:

They couldn’t pretend anymore. Something was wrong.

And it wasn’t going away on its own.

_______________

Cole couldn’t go back to his room.

Not now.

Not when his hands were still shaking and his chest felt like it had caved in. Not when they were all still in the kitchen—talking—watching, wondering, noticing.

If he went back, they might follow.

So he didn’t.

He took the long way around, turned a corner too sharp, walked too fast for how dizzy he felt. He bypassed the familiar curve of the hallway that led to his own room—his own bathroom—and instead made a beeline for the shared one tucked between the storage wing and the main hall. The one no one used much. The one where it wouldn’t look like him.

His stomach felt like it was eating itself from the inside.

There wasn’t even time to think. No time to plan. His whole body was pulsing with too much—rage, guilt, shame, pressure—and underneath it all, that horrible, gnawing need to get it out.

He ducked into the joint bathroom and closed the door behind him. Not locked. Just shut. Quietly. The second it clicked, he dropped to his knees.

His throat was already tight.

His mouth tasted like copper.

His hands moved automatically—hoodie sleeves bunched to his elbows, fingers pressing hard into the tile for balance.

The first heave came dry. Violent. He shook with it, arms trembling, vision spotting with dizziness.

Nothing came up.

He knew it wouldn’t—not yet.

His hand went to his mouth.

He didn’t think about it. He couldn’t afford to think.

Two fingers. Down his throat.

His body seized. He gagged once, hard. And then again.

It came in a rush—half-digested breakfast, acid and shame all at once. It scorched his throat, his nose, his eyes. He leaned forward, forehead brushing the seat of the toilet, as more came. And more. It wouldn’t stop.

He cried a little, but not from sadness. From the sting of it. From the burn. From how empty he felt already, and how it still didn’t feel like enough.

Finally, it slowed.

He sat back on his knees, chest heaving. His hands had gone numb. His sleeves were damp. There was a little spit on his chin and his whole face felt flushed.

He stared at the wall for a long moment.

Then he wiped his mouth with the inside of his hoodie and pushed himself upright, swaying slightly.

The sink was a blur. He turned on the faucet, rinsed, scrubbed at his face until the skin went pink.

Not his bathroom.

Not his room.

They wouldn’t know.

And still… his heart was beating like a war drum.

Because outside the door—he heard footsteps.

He froze. His fingers curled around the edge of the sink basin, breath caught in his throat.

One step. Then another.

Slow. Hesitant.

Then—a knock.

Soft. Barely there.

“Cole?”

Zane.

It was always Zane who noticed.

Cole didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Another pause.

Then, just as quietly, “I… I heard something just now. I wanted to check on you.”

Cole shut his eyes.

His reflection looked hollow. Cheeks flushed from exertion. Hair damp from sweat. Eyes a little too red.

His stomach flipped.

He forced himself to swallow, steadying his breath until he was sure he wouldn’t sound broken if he spoke.

But he didn’t speak.

The footsteps shifted.

Zane didn’t knock again. He just waited for a few more seconds.

And then he walked away.

The silence he left behind was somehow heavier than the knock.

Cole turned the sink off.

Stared at himself one last time.

Then pulled his sleeves down over his wrists and stepped out into the hallway like nothing had happened at all.

_______________

Zane didn’t hear the door open behind him.

Didn’t need to.

He could feel the silence, heavy and unnatural, clinging to the hallway like mist. The kind of quiet that came after something not right. Something raw.

He walked with measured steps, not too fast, not too slow, down the corridor and out toward the courtyard. His systems logged every sound, every shift in temperature, every echo—but they did not offer clarity.

Because what he’d heard behind the bathroom door hadn’t made sense.

It had sounded like—

He frowned.

No. He wasn’t entirely sure what it had sounded like.

Retching, maybe. A body heaving. The unmistakable cadence of someone vomiting. But the input didn’t align with what he knew—or what he thought he knew. He had information stored, yes. Medical files, symptom breakdowns, statistics. But it was all abstract. Theory. Disconnected.

Human discomfort was still a language he struggled to read in real-time.

So instead of reporting it to the others, he said nothing.

Not yet.

Not when he wasn’t sure what he’d heard—or what it meant.

He reached the edge of the courtyard and sat down on the stone step, letting the morning air cool his systems. He ran a diagnostic just to feel grounded. All green. All steady.

But his thoughts were not.

He’d seen the signs stacking up like fault lines. Skipped meals. Late-night footsteps. A shifting baseline of physical output in training. A visible decline in body weight that Cole was no longer hiding particularly well.

And now this.

But Zane couldn’t connect the lines without risking the wrong conclusion.

He didn’t feel fear, not in the human sense. But he understood the weight of uncertainty. The ache of helplessness. And sitting here now, hands folded calmly in his lap, he felt that ache in every circuit.

Cole was in trouble.

Of that, he was certain.

But the how—the why—was still just out of reach.

And until he understood it fully…

He wouldn’t act.

He couldn’t.

Because Cole already flinched from pressure. Already recoiled from help that came too fast or too direct.

So Zane would watch. He would wait.

He would gather the pieces one by one—quietly, carefully—and hope that when the moment came, he’d know enough to help without making things worse.

Chapter Text

But,

Zane was not patient by nature.

He was methodical, observant, calculated—but patience? That was something he mimicked. A learned behavior. A part of his programming, not his instinct.

And right now, he didn’t feel like waiting.

Something was wrong with Cole. That much was obvious. But observation alone wasn’t getting him anywhere. He had patterns, irregularities, inconsistencies—but no answers. Not yet. And Zane hated the unknown.

So, before the others woke fully and the day slipped into routine, he sat cross-legged in his room, a tablet balanced on his knee, fingers moving quickly across the screen.

He started with the basics.

“Friend is nauseous and throwing up frequently”
“Friend exhausted and skipping meals”
“Signs of overtraining and stomach upset”

The results were… less helpful than expected.

Articles about food poisoning, stress-induced nausea, chronic fatigue, and dehydration flooded the screen. Then came acronyms: IBS. GERD. CVS.

Zane clicked through them one by one, scanning each with increasing intensity.
Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Too common to confirm. Symptoms included bloating, fatigue, changes in appetite.
Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. Periods of intense vomiting, often tied to stress.

That gave him pause.
Cole was clearly under some kind of stress. Overworking himself. Withdrawing. The timeline made sense—maybe.

Zane bookmarked it.

Still… something didn’t sit right. The vomiting wasn’t random. It was too specific. Too… reactive. It followed meals. It came after tension. After silence. After he thought no one was watching.

Zane leaned back slightly, brows drawing together.

There had to be something he was missing. A condition? A trigger?

He typed again, more direct this time.
“Why does someone throw up after eating?”

He expected more gastrointestinal results. And for the most part, that’s what he got. Acid reflux. Intolerance. Anxiety.

Nothing concrete.

Zane stared at the screen for a moment longer, the soft blue light reflecting in his eyes.

No one else had mentioned anything. Maybe they were waiting too—watching the same unraveling thread. Or maybe they were afraid to tug on it.

But Zane couldn’t sit still anymore. The uncertainty pressed on him like static. He needed to understand. He needed a map.

He just wasn’t sure he was on the right path yet.

And Cole?

Cole was slipping through his fingers.

A soft knock broke Zane’s focus.

The door opened before he could answer.

Nya stepped in, already dressed, her hair braided up and out of her face. She had the look of someone trying to act casual—and failing.

“You’re up early,” she said.

“I do not sleep.”

She rolled her eyes gently. “You know what I mean.”

Zane set the tablet down beside him but didn’t close it. Nya’s gaze flicked toward the screen—she saw enough. And her shoulders tensed, just slightly.

“You’re still worried,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Zane nodded. “Yes.”

Nya moved to sit beside him, cross-legged like he was. She didn’t reach for the tablet, just waited.

Zane hesitated only a second. Then, “Have you ever heard of Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome?”

She blinked. “What?”

“It is a condition characterized by episodes of intense nausea and vomiting,” he said, tapping the screen once. “I have noted Cole exhibiting signs that could match the pattern—fatigue, withdrawal, digestive upset, mood swings…”

“Zane.”

He looked up.

She wasn’t dismissing him. But her expression had changed. She looked… pained.

“I don’t think this is medical,” she said quietly. “Not in the way you’re hoping.”

“I’m not hoping for anything,” Zane said. “Only clarity.”

Nya exhaled, hands fidgeting slightly in her lap. “I’ve seen this before,” she said, almost like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Zane tilted his head. “Where?”

Nya’s eyes dropped. “Kai,” she said. “When we were younger. There were weeks where… he didn’t eat enough. Not because he didn’t want to, but because we didn’t have food. I think it messed with him. I think it still does, sometimes.”

Zane stayed quiet.

“I remember once,” Nya continued, voice tight, “he came home from a friend’s house and threw up dinner. Just… didn’t know how to deal with a full plate. It scared me. He wouldn’t talk about it. I didn’t understand it. I was a kid.”

Zane’s brow furrowed.

“I’m not saying it’s the same,” Nya added quickly. “But the hiding. The shame. The pushing himself so hard. I saw it in Kai too.”

Zane absorbed that.

Quietly, he said, “If this is what I think it is—what you think it is—we cannot wait much longer.”

“No,” Nya agreed. “But we can’t push either. If we confront him now, he’ll just bury it deeper.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence a moment.

Zane tapped the tablet screen off and set it aside.

“I will keep watching,” he said. “If there is a deeper root, I want to understand it before we act.”

Nya nodded. “I’ll help.”

Zane glanced at her, something like gratitude flickering in his expression.

They both stood—quiet, steady, bracing themselves for whatever came next.

_______________

The sun was already high by the time they moved to the courtyard.

Training wasn’t anything complicated—just warmups and endurance drills. But Cole still looked like he was dragging weights behind him.

He wasn’t late.

He wasn’t slacking.

But something was clearly off.

Zane had noticed it first, naturally. The lag in Cole’s gait. The stiffness in his shoulders. The moments where his breathing caught slightly, uneven, like his lungs were two seconds behind his body. His hands trembled when he thought no one was watching.

But people were watching now.

Cole crouched low in a basic stance, holding it as instructed. Sweat beaded on his brow far too early. His face had gone pale. His eyes were on the ground, unfocused.

Zane clocked all of it.

Then it happened.

A stumble—followed by a full fall. Not a misstep. Not clumsy footing. Just… a drop.

His leg buckled. His elbow hit the ground with a dull thud.

Lloyd startled slightly, instinctively stepping forward before catching himself. Kai’s brow furrowed. Jay opened his mouth, then closed it.

Cole grunted as he sat up, wiping at his face quickly. “I’m good,” he said, already trying to stand.

“You’re not,” Nya said flatly, from the sideline.

“I just got dizzy,” Cole insisted. “It’s fine.”

Zane crouched beside him before he could push up too fast. “You did not hit your head?” he asked.

“No,” Cole muttered.

“Did you eat today?” Jay asked, a little too blunt.

Cole froze.

Then: “Yeah. Of course I did.”

Zane watched him carefully.

He was lying.

Cole pushed to his feet with more force than needed, brushing off invisible dust. “I said I’m good.”

No one argued, but no one nodded either.

Wu, who had been silently watching from the edge of the courtyard, finally stepped forward. His voice was calm. “That’s enough for today.”

Cole didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

He turned before anyone could say another word.

As he walked away, the sun caught the back of his hoodie—damp with sweat, darker in patches along his spine and collar. Zane noted the uneven gait again. The slight tremble in his fingers. His shoulder dipping just a fraction too low.

Something was unraveling. Still.

And this time, it was beginning to show.

Zane remained standing for a moment longer, watching the courtyard door swing shut behind Cole. The soft clatter of practice weapons being put away echoed in the background. Nya and Kai murmured something to each other on the far side of the yard, but Zane didn’t register the words.

His attention stayed fixed on the hallway Cole had disappeared into.

Data collection only went so far. Patterns were emerging. But without context, they were useless. Dehydration, fatigue, rapid weight loss—he had read about those things this morning. He’d considered vitamin deficiencies, stomach infections, digestive disorders. But none of them quite fit. Not with the mood swings. The secrecy. The fear.

He needed more information.

He turned and walked toward the weapons rack, setting down the staff in his hands with practiced ease. Nya caught his movement and stepped closer, quiet.

“How bad was it?” she asked under her breath.

Zane glanced in the direction Cole had gone. “Noticeably worse. Physical symptoms are compounding.”

She nodded once, jaw tight. “I’m still on board. Slow approach. Just keep me in the loop.”

“I will.”

They didn’t say anything else. Not here.

Not yet.

The team was already too aware that something wasn’t right.

But neither of them were ready to say it aloud.

The others were filtering out now, sweat-slicked and winded from the session. Lloyd passed by with a tired stretch, muttering something about a shower. Jay followed a step behind, towel slung over his shoulder, brow faintly furrowed. His gaze lingered on the hallway Cole had taken.

Zane noticed. Everyone was noticing now.

Kai approached next, walking past them toward the doors. “He didn’t look good,” he muttered under his breath. “Again.”

Zane didn’t answer.

Neither did Nya.

Kai paused just long enough to glance between them, squinting slightly. “You two know something?” he asked, voice quiet, but edged with suspicion.

Zane shook his head, not a lie, but not quite the truth either. “Only that we should be paying attention.”

That answer seemed to satisfy him. Or at least stop the questioning for now. He left them with a nod and headed inside, steps heavier than usual.

Once they were alone again, Nya exhaled slowly. “I hate this,” she said.

Zane looked at her. “I know.”

“It’s like watching a building crack from the inside, and no one can get in to reinforce the structure.”

Zane tilted his head. “Except we can. Slowly. Carefully.”

“If he doesn’t shut us out completely first.”

Neither of them said anything after that.

A breeze drifted through the courtyard, gentle and cool, rustling the edge of a half-folded mat. Zane bent down and began tidying the rest of the equipment—automatic, methodical. He didn’t like sitting still. Not when something was wrong.

The courtyard emptied. The sun shifted higher in the sky.

Zane stacked the last training pads in place and turned toward the monastery doors. “I’m going to monitor him more directly.”

Nya didn’t argue. She only nodded.

“Let me know if you notice anything,” he added.

“I always do.”

_______________

He hadn’t meant to stare.

But he’d caught it again—just for a second.

That uneven step. The way Cole winced when he thought no one was looking. The shake in his hands when he pushed himself up from the mat.

It didn’t sit right.

Kai had always prided himself on reading battles before they happened, on spotting weaknesses in an opponent before they struck. But this—whatever this was—he couldn’t predict it. Couldn’t pin it down. And it wasn’t just throwing him off. It scared him.

Cole didn’t get like this.

He could handle a sprain. A fever. A bruised rib from a bad fall. They all could. But this wasn’t bruises. This was something underneath the skin. Something Cole wouldn’t let anyone see.

Kai made it as far as the hallway outside the training room before slowing down. He leaned against the wall, dragging a hand down his face.

And then there was them—Zane and Nya.

He’d asked. Point-blank. “You two know something?”

Zane’s response had been vague. Careful. “Only that we should be paying attention.”

Not a lie. But definitely not the whole truth.

Kai wasn’t dumb. They were holding back. And if they were worried about Cole, then something was really wrong.

Because Zane noticed things the rest of them missed. And Nya… Nya never played the long game unless she thought it mattered. The two of them working together, whispering like that?

It meant something.

He kicked lightly at the base of the wall. “Dammit.”

He stood there a moment longer, arms crossed, burning with frustration. Not at Cole. At himself.

At the fact that he didn’t know how to help.

Something was off. Not just with Cole, but with the way everyone was acting around him. And it was getting harder and harder to breathe around the silence.

Eventually, he turned and headed toward his own room, hoping that if he gave Cole space, it’d mean something. That maybe—maybe—Cole would come to him when he was ready.

Still.

He couldn’t shake the feeling in his chest.

Something was wrong.

And he wasn’t going to wait forever.

He couldn’t shake the feeling in his chest.

Something was wrong.

And he wasn’t going to wait forever.

Kai pivoted on his heel and doubled back down the hallway.

He knew where to find her—he always did. When something was bothering Nya, she had a tendency to gravitate toward the corners of the monastery with the most light and the least people. And when she was hiding something?

She was never far from where she could keep an eye on things.

Sure enough, he found her in the greenhouse alcove. Her back was turned, crouched near a potted sprig of something green and overgrown. Hands busy. Shoulders tense. She didn’t flinch when he approached.

“Hey,” Kai said, voice low.

“Hey,” she returned, not looking up.

A beat passed.

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” he added, arms crossing.

“Never said you were.”

“You and Zane,” he said. “You’ve been weird for days. Skirting around things. Glancing at each other like you’re playing a game of who’s going to crack first.”

That earned him a small sigh. She stood slowly, brushing soil off her hands.

“Kai…”

“You are hiding something,” he pressed. “Don’t lie to me.”

Nya met his eyes now. And for a second—just a second—he thought she was about to fold. But then her gaze shifted, calculating. “It’s not that simple.”

“Simple would be talking to me,” Kai snapped. “Simple would be looping in your brother, for once.”

Nya’s jaw tightened. “We’re not trying to cut you out. We’re trying to be careful.”

“Careful’s one word for it,” he muttered. “You’ve seen him. You know something’s wrong. So why are we all tiptoeing around it like we’re scared to say it out loud?”

She hesitated.

And that was all the answer Kai needed.

“…You don’t know what it is,” he realized.

“No. Not exactly.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But we’ve been watching. And Zane saw something that worried him.”

“What kind of something?”

She shook her head. “You’d have to ask him. He’s still putting it together.”

Kai ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So what? We wait around until he breaks? That’s your plan?”

“No,” she said firmly. “We give him the space to come to us. We keep an eye on him. And if things get worse… then we step in.”

Kai paced a short line in front of her. “Things are getting worse, Nya.”

“I know.”

He stopped and looked at her again. “Then let me talk to him.”

Her brows drew together. “Now?”

“If not now, when?”

She looked like she wanted to say no. But after a second, she gave a slow nod. “Fine. But don’t push. Just… talk. Let him know we’re here.”

“I wasn’t planning on playing therapist.”

Nya gave him a dry look. “You? Definitely not.”

“…Thanks,” he muttered, and turned to go.

Kai didn’t head straight for Cole’s room.
Instead, he turned down the hall, footsteps quiet against the wood, slowing as he reached Zane’s door.

He hesitated—not because he was unsure, but because Zane was never easy to read. And if Nya was deflecting, Zane would be worse. More facts. Less answers. Still, she’d said to talk to him. And Kai wasn’t going to walk into a mess blind.

He knocked once, knuckles sharp against the frame.

“Come in,” Zane said, voice even as ever.

Kai stepped inside.

Zane was seated at his desk, eyes flicking briefly away from the screen in front of him before returning. Code scrolled quietly. Charts. Data. Graphs. Kai didn’t understand any of it. He didn’t need to.

“You tracking the weather?” he asked flatly.

“No,” Zane said. “Cole.”

Kai blinked.

Zane turned the screen slightly, revealing what looked like a chart of nutrient deficiencies, circadian rhythms, caloric needs. It wasn’t surveillance. Not like that. But it was something. Notes. Research. Concern distilled into cold, careful logic.

“You’re actually trying to figure it out,” Kai muttered. “For real.”

“I told Nya I would watch him,” Zane said. “And I meant it.”

Kai ran a hand through his hair, stepping farther in. “I knew something was off but… you’ve been doing all this?”

Zane’s expression didn’t change. “It’s my way of understanding.”

Kai stared for a beat. “You think it’s physical? Something medical?”

Zane hesitated. Just slightly. “Possibly. There are signs of fatigue. Poor digestion. But I lack a full picture.”

Kai squinted. “Like… stomach issues?”

“I considered that,” Zane said. “There are disorders that affect the gastrointestinal system. Irritable bowel syndrome. Cyclical vomiting. But none of them fully explain the behavioral changes.”

Kai leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “He’s not just sick. He’s scared.”

Zane’s eyes flicked up to him.

“I’ve seen that look before,” Kai muttered. “On myself.”

The room was quiet for a long beat.

Kai finally sighed. “I’m gonna talk to him.”

Zane nodded. “Be careful.”

Kai raised a brow. “Of him?”

“Of how close he is to breaking,” Zane said simply. “And of how good he is at hiding it.”

Kai swallowed hard.

“Got it.”

He left without another word, the image of Cole’s empty stare still sharp behind his eyes.

Kai didn’t head straight to Cole’s room.

He lingered in the hallway just long enough to gather his thoughts, arms crossed tight over his chest, the weight of everything Zane had said pressing down on him like an avalanche threatening to drop.

He knew this kind of silence. Knew what it looked like when someone started folding in on themselves. Because he’d done it too—different reasons, same descent.

But Cole wasn’t a quiet person. Not usually.

And that was what made it worse.

When he finally made it to Cole’s door, he didn’t knock right away. He stared at the grain in the wood instead, his fingers twitching at his sides, his breath steady but shallow.

This wasn’t just any talk. This was a minefield. One wrong word and Cole might never open the door again.

Kai knocked. Once. Lightly.

There was no response.

He waited. Five seconds. Ten.

“Yo, Cole?” he called softly, voice stripped of bravado.

Still nothing.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and leaned against the frame. “Look, I’m not here to… I don’t know. Give a lecture or anything. I just…” His throat tightened. “Can I come in?”

Silence.

Then, footsteps. Slow. Hesitant.

The door creaked open a few inches, and one tired eye stared back at him. Cole didn’t say anything—he just looked. Face unreadable. Shadows under his eyes, hoodie sleeves too long, clinging to the edges of the door like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Kai didn’t push.

He just stood there, waiting.

Finally, Cole opened the door the rest of the way and stepped back.

Kai entered, careful. No fast movements. No sharp breaths.

The room was a mess — not the kind born of laziness, but frustration. Anger. Clothes strewn across the floor like they’d been ripped from drawers. A blanket tossed halfway across the bed, the other bunched in a corner. The desk chair was knocked over, a few books scattered near the wall. And a broken picture frame — the one Kai had seen countless times on Cole’s nightstand — was face-down near the dresser, cracked glass still clinging to the corners.

Like Cole hadn’t had the heart to throw it away.

Or the strength to fix it.

He didn’t comment.

Just walked in and sat on the edge of the bed.

Cole stayed near the door. Guarded. Silent.

Kai waited.

Then, gently, “You scared us this morning.”

A flicker of something passed through Cole’s eyes.

Kai kept going, slow and even. “I’m not mad. No one’s mad. But it was… a lot.”

Cole’s arms folded across his chest. “I said I was fine.”

Kai let out a short laugh, dry and quiet. “You say that a lot lately.”

Cole didn’t respond.

Kai glanced over at him, eyes soft. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I know how hard it is. Trying to explain it. Trying to even name it.”

Cole shifted. “Name what?”

“I don’t know,” Kai admitted. “Whatever’s eating at you.”

That landed wrong.

Cole flinched—just slightly—but enough. His jaw tightened. “I’m not—”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Kai cut in, gently. “Sorry.”

Cole turned away. “You don’t get it.”

Kai hesitated. Then, “I might.”

That made Cole freeze.

Kai stood, but slowly. Careful.

“I don’t talk about it much,” he said, voice low, steady. “But when Nya and I were younger, there were days when we didn’t eat. Not because we didn’t want to. We just couldn’t afford it. Food was… rare. When we had it, I always tried to give more to her.”

He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his palm.

“And then, later, even when we had enough, I couldn’t get my head to believe it. I got stuck in a cycle. Skipping meals. Overtraining. I thought if I could just control one thing, I’d be okay.”

He looked up again.

“I know what it’s like. Hating your own needs.”

Cole’s face crumpled slightly. Not enough to break—but enough to fracture.

“I’m not hungry,” he whispered.

Kai didn’t argue.

Instead, he stepped closer and said, “Okay.”

That was it.

Just okay.

But it knocked the wind out of Cole like a punch to the ribs.

He sat down. Hard. Like he couldn’t keep holding himself upright anymore.

Kai didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just stayed at the edge, nearby but not too close.

Cole’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke again.

“I feel like I’m falling apart. But if I admit it… I’ll lose everything.”

Kai stared ahead. “You won’t. I promise.”

Cole laughed, but it was bitter. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” Kai said, “but I’ll fight to make sure of it.”

That quieted the room again.

Not heavy.

Just full.

Cole didn’t answer, but he didn’t push Kai away either.

His shoulders trembled, barely — like a twitch trying to become a sob. And then… a breath. One shaky inhale. He scrubbed at his face with the back of his sleeve, but the motion was too fast, too rough, like if he moved gently it might all break open again.

Kai didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, waiting.

And Cole caved.

Without warning, without words, he leaned into him.

It wasn’t graceful. His movements were stiff, awkward—like his body didn’t remember how to ask for comfort—but he did it anyway. He shifted closer and folded against Kai’s side, forehead pressed into his shoulder. His arms stayed tight around himself, like letting go of even that small tension might be too much.

Kai froze for half a second.

Then he wrapped his arms around him.

No hesitation.

No questions.

It wasn’t a strong hug. It was careful. Gentle. Protective. The kind of hug that said I’ve got you, without needing to say anything at all.

Cole stayed there, quiet, shivering once like the last tremor of a storm, and then finally stilled.

“…I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered. Barely above a whisper. Raw. Honest.

Kai exhaled against his hair. “That makes two of us.”

Another beat passed. Cole let out a laugh — short, flat, tired — and Kai felt it more than heard it.

But he didn’t pull away.

And neither did Cole.

It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t explain anything.

But it was something.

And right now, something was enough.

Or at least, it should’ve been.

Because as Kai held him—felt the way Cole’s weight pressed into him like he hadn’t let himself lean on anyone in years—he could also feel the tension still rooted in his spine. The way Cole’s hands refused to let go of his own arms, knuckles white, nails digging crescent moons into fabric.

He was still holding himself together. Barely.

Kai knew what that was.

Knew what it meant to break alone, and then brace every limb like a crumbling dam because letting anyone see the whole mess would feel worse than drowning in it.

He shifted slightly, tightening his hold. “You don’t have to pretend right now.”

Cole didn’t respond.

Kai let silence hang for a moment, thinking maybe that would make it easier.

But then—

“I’m not pretending,” Cole said, muffled against his shoulder. “I’m trying.”

His voice cracked right at the end.

And then the dam split.

One short breath, and then another. His arms came up, hesitant, and finally wrapped around Kai—not tight, not desperate, but enough to say don’t go.

Kai didn’t.

Cole’s next breath hitched again, and he buried his face deeper into Kai’s zip-up. His shoulders started to shake, almost imperceptibly at first—like his body was trying to stifle what was already breaking loose.

A choked noise escaped his throat. Barely a sob. More like the ghost of one.

And that’s when Kai knew—this was the closest Cole had come to letting go in weeks.

Maybe longer.

Kai’s own throat ached. He didn’t say it’s okay, because it wasn’t. He didn’t say you’re safe, because Cole wouldn’t believe that right now. He didn’t say anything, really—just sat there, arms around his friend, heart splitting for every shudder that trembled out of him.

When Cole finally spoke again, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t clear.

“I feel disgusting.”

Kai pulled back just enough to look at him, but Cole wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I feel like I’m crawling in my own skin,” he said, jaw clenched. “Like everything I do just makes it worse. And I’m—”

He cut himself off.

Kai waited.

“I’m scared that if I tell anyone,” Cole finally whispered, “they’ll look at me different.”

Kai’s chest tightened. “I won’t.”

“You don’t know what it is,” Cole said. “What if it’s not something you can fix?”

“Then I’ll sit with you in it,” Kai said. “Until you can fix it. Or until it hurts less.”

Cole let out a shaky breath. He still wasn’t crying. Not really. But the tears were there, and Kai could see them—resting heavy in the corners of his eyes like they didn’t know how to fall properly anymore.

“I’m so tired,” Cole breathed.

Kai nodded slowly. “Then rest, man. I’ve got you.”

This time, when Cole leaned back in, it wasn’t hesitant.

It was all weight. All exhaustion. All quiet grief.

He slumped against Kai like he didn’t have anything left to hold himself up anymore. And Kai—he bore it all. Not just the physical weight, but the unspoken, unbearable pressure Cole had been carrying alone.

Minutes passed. Neither of them moved.

And somewhere in that silence, something shifted.

Not everything. Not enough.

But something.

And right now…

Something had to be enough.

_______________

It was too much.
And somehow… not enough.

Cole didn’t know how long they stayed like that.

Seconds. Minutes. A whole lifetime.

But he was still here.

Breathing. Shaking. Pressed into Kai like he might fall apart all over again if he let go.

And Kai—he hadn’t let him. Not once.

Cole’s throat burned. Not just from the way he’d been holding it all in, but from the actual raw ache that clung to his ribs. From the pressure behind his eyes that refused to give him the dignity of real tears.

He wasn’t crying.
He wanted to.
He couldn’t.

His face was buried in Kai’s shoulder, breath hot and uneven. His fingers twisted into the fabric of Kai’s zip-up like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. And maybe it was.

Because everything else was drifting. Floating. Tipping sideways like his head had come unfastened from his body.

He was so tired.

His body ached in ways he couldn’t name—like every part of him was running on fumes and muscle memory alone. His head throbbed. His arms shook even now. He hated that.

He hated this.

But still… it was something.

Being held.

Being seen.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

He hadn’t planned for this moment.

He hadn’t planned at all.

“Breathe,” Kai said again, voice low near his ear. Steady. “Just breathe, man. You’re alright.”

Was he?
No.

But Kai’s arms didn’t loosen.
Kai didn’t let him fall.

Cole’s eyes fluttered closed for a second—just a second. He swallowed, throat dry and aching.

“Cole,” Kai said gently. “You still with me?”

Barely.
But yeah.

He gave the faintest nod, dampening Kai’s shoulder with unshed tears. His body felt heavy. Too heavy. Like it wasn’t meant to be moved anymore.

Kai began to rub small circles on Cole’s back. Stopping only to snatch lint and throw it off to the side.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Cole stared at the floor, watched the sunlight through the curtain slats stripe across the wood like bars. He wanted to say something. Anything.
But he didn’t know how to start.

What could he even say?

I’ve been hiding this.
I don’t know how to stop.
I’m scared.

His mouth didn’t move.

Instead, he took one of his hands away from Kai’s back and rubbed at his face, knuckles brushing his eyes like maybe he could scrub the weakness out. His hand trembled. He hated that too.

“I didn’t want it to get this bad,” he said at last, voice thin and hollow. “I thought I could handle it.”

Kai didn’t tell him that was stupid. Didn’t tell him he should’ve said something sooner.

He just said, “You don’t have to handle it alone anymore.”

Cole looked down at his lap.

There was still so much shame there. Still so much he hadn’t said.

He wasn’t ready.

But maybe…
Maybe he was closer.

So he just nodded, once, and let his body lean back against the wall—heavy and spent.

The weight hadn’t gone away.

But it was no longer his alone to carry.

_______________

Kai didn’t move right away.

Cole was still leaning into him—shoulders slack, head bowed slightly, his breath slow and quiet against Kai’s zip-up. The hug had faded into something looser, but they hadn’t let go entirely. It wasn’t tense. Just heavy. A kind of exhausted closeness.

Kai could feel the shift in the sunlight through the curtains. Time passing. His stomach gave a soft growl that echoed too loud in the quiet room.

Cole didn’t even flinch.

Kai let the moment breathe for a few seconds longer. Then he spoke, voice quiet so he didn’t startle anything loose.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” he murmured. “Figured I should grab something.”

Cole didn’t respond, but Kai didn’t expect him to. Not immediately.

“We could go together,” he said, gently, “or I can bring you something back. Either way.”

Cole exhaled through his nose, a tired sound more than anything. His hand loosened where it had been resting against Kai’s side. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean in either.

“I’m tired,” he said after a pause. Not an excuse. Just a truth.

Kai nodded where they sat, his chin brushing Cole’s hair. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

He didn’t press. Didn’t joke. Didn’t tell him food would help or that skipping another meal was a bad idea. He’d lived that mistake already. Knew how fast care could curdle into pressure.

Instead, he gave Cole one last squeeze—light, steady—and slowly pulled back.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll go see what’s in the kitchen. If you want something later, just say so.”

Cole finally looked at him, just barely, eyes dull but clearer than before. “Thanks… for not pushing.”

Kai gave him a soft smile. “Learned the hard way.”

He stood carefully, giving Cole space without making it feel like a goodbye.

At the door, he paused and glanced back.

Cole hadn’t moved. Still curled slightly in on himself, still sitting where they’d been. But the weight in the air felt different now.

Not lighter, exactly. Just… shared.

Kai stepped out into the hallway and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. He paused for a second, letting the silence settle, then turned and made his way toward the kitchen.

The monastery was still, sun filtering in through high windows, shadows soft at the edges. The scent of lunch drifted faintly down the hall—garlic, rice, something warm and simple.

When he entered the kitchen, Zane was plating food with precise care, like always. Lloyd and Jay were already seated, murmuring low between themselves. Nya sat across from them, arms crossed, picking idly at her sleeve.

Their eyes lifted as Kai stepped in.

“Kai,” Nya said cautiously. “Where’ve you been?”

Jay added, “You look… weirdly okay right now.”

“Yeah,” Lloyd agreed, glancing at him curiously. “Did something happen?”

Kai gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “What, am I not allowed to be in a decent mood for once?”

Zane looked up from the stove. “Your energy is… noticeably different.”

Kai shrugged but couldn’t hide the small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I talked to Cole.”

Everyone straightened at once.

“You what?” Jay said, nearly dropping his chopsticks.

Kai walked over and leaned against the counter beside Zane. “Yeah. After training, I went to his room. Thought I’d try. I mean, what were we gonna do—just keep tiptoeing around him forever?”

Nya blinked, visibly holding back a dozen questions. “And…?”

Kai exhaled, glancing toward the hallway. “He didn’t exactly spill everything. He didn’t say much at all. But he let me be there. He listened. He didn’t shut down completely.”

Zane’s hands stilled over the pan. “That is progress.”

“It’s something,” Kai agreed.

Jay frowned, confused. “So what do we do now? Do we… say something? Or keep backing off?”

“No,” Kai said firmly. “Not backing off. But not cornering him either. Right now, I think he just needs… someone steady. Someone who’s not asking for answers.”

Nya nodded slowly. “That’s what we’ve been trying to do.”

“Yeah,” Kai said. “But maybe now he’ll start letting us.”

He glanced down at the steaming bowls Zane had set out—six in total, one untouched near the end of the counter.

He tapped the edge of it. “I’ll bring his to him. He said he was tired.”

Zane didn’t question it. Just slid the bowl a little closer and added a spoon.

Kai took it carefully in both hands.

This wasn’t over. Not even close. But it was a start. Maybe the first real one they’d had in days.

And he’d take that.