Page 48 of Romancing in Rot

She is not ready.

Not yet.

And Lyla knows it.

That is why she has been watching from the edge of camp all morning, arms crossed and face unreadable, while I put Clair through the same movements again and again.

Clair gets out of the wrist hold twice.

Breaks my grip once.

Almost smiles about it.

Then the training knife touches her throat.

And she freezes.

Her body goes hard against mine, every muscle locking down like the world snapped a chain around her ribs and pulled tight. One second she is in the clearing with me, jaw set, determined to prove something no one asked her to prove.

The next, she’s gone.

Not physically.

Worse.

I release her immediately and step back.

Clair stumbles forward one step, then catches herself, one hand flying to her throat even though the knife is dull rubber. Nothing. Less than nothing.

Her breathing says otherwise.

“Sorry,” she says fast.

My jaw tightens.

Absolutely fucking not.

I shake my head.

She keeps her eyes on the dirt. “I froze.”

I reach for my notebook, but she laughs once, sharp and embarrassed, before I can write.

“That’s kind of the opposite of what I’m supposed to do.”

I flip the notebook open and write fast. Remember, fear is not failure. Then, above it, I underline the point of the lesson again: Leverage. Control. Don’t meet strength head-on.

She reads it.

Her throat works.

Around us, camp has gone too quiet.

Jacob watches from near the truck, arms crossed and mouth shut. Trish pretends to sort bandages and fools no one. Edith sits in a camping chair near the fire, eating pretzels like this is dinner theater.

Honestly, it kind of is. Entertainment options are limited in the apocalypse. You take what you can get.

But Lyla is the one I notice.