Lyra all but ran down the stairs, out of the apartment building, barely noticing the startled looks of a neighbor or two as she bolted past.
The air outside hit her like a slap: bright, cool, filled with late-morning birdsong and the distant hum of the city. She barely registered it.
Her heart was hammering in her chest, too loud, as if it wanted to leap out and betray her with the truth she was trying so desperately to ignore.
She'd barely managed to grab her bag before leaving, and her phone felt clammy in her hand. She didn't look back. She didn't dare.
Her body was still humming, her skin hot, her mouth dry, her thoughts an unmanageable mess. She replayed the scene in Alayah's apartment again and again: the way their bodies had fit together in that hug, the heat pressed between them, the unmistakable hard line against her thigh.
For a split second, Lyra had been curious. No, not curious—hungry. She'd wondered what would happen if she just let it play out, let Alayah take what she wanted, let herself want it too.
The thought burned through her—shame and anticipation mingling. That was wrong. So wrong. That was her enemy. That was the demon she was supposed to outwit, outlast, defeat. Not… not something else.
She made it to her front door, fumbled the key, got inside, and slammed it behind her, locking it with too much force.
She stood with her back pressed to the wood, chest heaving, eyes wide, as if expecting Alayah to burst in after her. Instead, the house was quiet, dust motes dancing in the filtered light. The silence felt accusatory.
What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?
Lyra forced herself to move, to keep going, not to let her legs collapse from the swirling mix of adrenaline and—yes, she'd admit it—desire.
She dropped her bag on the floor, tugged off her T-shirt, and headed straight for the shower.
The water was shockingly cold, but she welcomed it.
She scrubbed herself with unnecessary force, as if she could wash away the memory of Alayah's touch, the way her hands had felt guiding Lyra's, the smirk in her eyes, the heat on her breath.
She shivered, but it did little to kill the memory, or the image of what almost happened.
Stop thinking about it. She's the enemy. This is a contest. You have to win. You have to be strong.
And yet, in the cold spray, she found herself replaying that moment over and over, editing it in her mind.
What if she hadn't pulled away? What if, instead, she'd let Alayah close the last gap, let those strong hands roam further, let herself be kissed—claimed? What would that have felt like? What would it have done to her, to both of them?
Her heart thundered. Stupid. Stupid. Focus.
Lyra forced herself out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, and glared at herself in the mirror. She looked normal. Too normal.
No marks, no magic, nothing to betray the chaos beneath her skin. She dressed quickly, picking simple jeans and a T-shirt, running a comb through her hair with more force than necessary. She had to do something—anything—to push the thoughts away.
She glanced at the time: almost noon. It was Saturday, and the streets would be alive. Maybe if she walked, if she just went outside and played the game—the game, the real one, not the one with controllers and accidental intimacy, she'd remember who she was.
She was a competitor, a Celestian, a contender for peace and pride, not some hormonal mess pining after the enemy.
She shoved her phone and crystal pouch into her bag and stepped out into the street.
---
The city was awake, golden with sunlight, noisy and alive. Lyra fell into step with the crowd, letting herself drift, blending in for once. She tuned in to the low magical hum beneath human life, searching for emotional crystals.
It was a welcome distraction. Lust and admiration shimmered at the edge of her senses as she passed a group of girls near a coffee shop—she pocketed them, feeling her confidence return.
A couple in the park argued, and a spike of envy formed, followed by a quick burst of reconciliation and the soft glow of affection.
Lyra absorbed them both, the act of collection soothing, automatic, grounding.
This was what she was good at. Magic, strategy, reading the undercurrent of emotions that humans left behind like footprints. No awkwardness, no confusion. Just points, strategy, purpose.
She stopped at a food cart, buying an iced tea she barely tasted, eyes flicking over the crowd for her next opportunity.
A cluster of students from the university walked by, chattering about last night's party. Lyra let herself drift after them, listening to their words, seeing the way feelings formed and faded.
She caught her reflection in a shop window, just for a moment. There she was: silver hair, bright eyes, composed and clean.
Nothing to give her away. No one would guess what she was really thinking, what she'd almost done.
She checked her crystal pouch—half-full already. Not bad for barely an hour of work. She let herself wander further, taking the long route through a leafy residential area.
She could feel herself relaxing, step by step, breath by breath. She even allowed herself a moment to think about fencing practice next week, or maybe challenging Claire to a rematch. Something normal.
That's when she felt it.
A faint pulse—a crystal forming, not in someone else, but somewhere very close. Her own skin tingled. She stopped dead in her tracks, confusion flickering over her face.
It was subtle, a gentle, steady heartbeat of energy. She reached inside herself, searching, trying to sense where it was coming from.
And there it was: a tiny, gleaming pink crystal, flickering into being just over her chest. Lyra stared, breath caught in her throat.
A crush crystal. Her own. She hadn't felt that happen in years—crystals forming from her, not for her.
It was always easier to sense other people's feelings, to collect, to analyze, to use them. But this—this was personal. This was messy.
She lifted a shaking hand, feeling the magic swirl, the crystal hovering just at the edge of her aura.
No. No, no, no. Not possible.
A small crush? For whom? For what? She tried to push it away, to deny it, but it remained—steady, real, undeniable.
Maybe it was about Alayah. Maybe it was about the way Alayah had looked at her, the way she'd held her, the way she'd almost…
Lyra's mouth went dry. She looked up at the clear sky, as if the sun might offer answers.
She'd collected crushes from others before, and always treated them as trophies, proof of her skill. But her own? That was dangerous. That was the beginning of something she might not be able to control.
She stood for a long time on the sidewalk, iced tea sweating in her hand, watching the tiny crystal shimmer with her own hesitant feeling.