The Range of Her Guns

He ran.

Not with dignity. Not with grace.

With desperation.

Rowan sprinted down the corridor like the floor behind him was disintegrating. The door slammed shut behind him, and still he ran—legs pumping, backpack half-zipped, lungs clawing at air that tasted like lavender perfume and danger.

Solitude. Peace. Just one hour.

That's all he needed.

Where? Where could he go where they wouldn't follow? The library was too public. His dorm? Too obvious. The chapel? No. That place was sacred! No way he was risking that!

His eyes snapped up as he passed the freshman stairwell. Yes! He spun, slammed through the door, and started climbing.

One flight. Two. Three. Four.

Each step pounded beneath his boots like a heartbeat counting down.

Every floor he passed echoed with the distant murmurs of voices—laughs, chatter, footsteps. Female voices.

God help him, they were everywhere.

He reached the final landing, the forbidden zone—the door with the peeling fire code sticker and the hand-lettered sign that read:

"Authorized Personnel Only. Violators will be prosecuted, electrocuted, and possibly fined."

Rowan didn't care.

He was the first male Captain in over a decade.

He'd earned a little rooftop crisis.

He shoved the door open, stumbled into daylight, and slammed it shut behind him with the force of a depth charge.

The door clicked.

The wind howled.

And then—

Silence.

Sweet, blessed, girl-free silence.

The rooftop stretched out before him—flat and sunlit, bordered by safety rails and dotted with mechanical units humming softly to themselves like old men at prayer. The air was warm and salt-touched, the sky wide and blue. For the first time all morning, his lungs actually worked.

Rowan staggered forward, dropped his bag, and collapsed onto the sun-warmed concrete like a man shipwrecked on dry land.

He lay there, arms out, chest heaving.

Safe.

For now.

He peeled himself up off the concrete, still panting, and wandered forward—toward the edge of the roof.

A gentle sea breeze tugged at his shirt. Below, the academy unfolded in layers of soft red brick and green courtyards, framed by the glittering kiss of the ocean. From up here, it almost looked normal. Peaceful. Like a place where no one had tried to murder him with affection.

He sat down on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like a kid on a dock. The metal railing pressed into the backs of his knees as he exhaled, long and shaky.

Then—flicker. Sparkle.

Lightning appeared at his side.

Small and glowing, perched cross-legged in the air like a smug, barely-there Greek goddess. Her translucent dress shifted in the wind, more aesthetic suggestion than fabric, and her eyes danced with mirth.

"Well," she said sweetly, "I'm glad to see our brave Captain survived the first wave."

Rowan didn't look at her.

Instead, he opened his bag, pulled out a crinkled paper napkin, and unwrapped the world's most pathetic peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It had been squashed slightly by a forgotten notebook and was now folded in on itself like it, too, wanted to give up.

He took a bite anyway. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then, slowly, he pulled out a personal-size bag of Doritos and popped it open with a plastic snap.

Lightning floated closer, chin in her hands. "You know, for someone bonded to a billion-dollar Shipframe, you really do eat like a sad orphan."

"Screw you," Rowan said with a laugh, half a crumb still in his mouth. "That was terrifying."

She blinked innocently. "More terrifying than when you broke your belt during your graduation walk?" Rowan scoffed. "Was it scarier than the you thought, for sure, that that sweet neighbor girl had seen you naked?" Ok... That had been pretty mortifying. Lightning snapped her blue holographic fingers! "I know! Was it worse than the time that your mom found those sketches you did? After your senior beach trip?" Rowan blanched. Oh, ok. Yea. That was bad. He was certain his mom had been so angry she was glowing. They hadn't even been dirty drawings! It was just a project where he had been sketching different body types but boy, did his mom take some convincing on that. He thought for sure that she was going to strangle him.

"I would rather face Bismarck's main guns again than sit through another class with those girls staring at me like I'm a walking dessert tray." He took another bite, eyes wide with lingering trauma. "I have never felt more like an animal at bay in my life."

Lightning giggled—soft, delighted, almost sympathetic.

"You were very brave," she offered, patting his head with a finger made of shimmering light. "Captain Cuddles. Defender of Innocence. Slayer of Freckle Tracers."

"Don't," he groaned. "Do not say that phrase ever again."

Lightning only smiled wider, floating in slow circles around him like a smug halo. "I don't know, Cap. You might need blood pressure meds if this keeps up."

He held up a Dorito. "If I jump, will you catch me?"

"Nope."

"Figured."

He leaned back on one palm and looked out over the water. For a moment, he let the quiet take him. Just the hum of the rooftop units. The wind in the flagpole above. The crackle of his own snack bag.

He sighed again.

"Can I just stay here forever?"

Lightning hovered above his shoulder, more thoughtful now.

"…You've got fifty-three minutes left until your next class."

Rowan groaned. Loudly. With feeling. He was about to return his attention to his little pathetic sandwich when Lightning gasped, delighted.

"Uh-oh. Cap..." she purred. "Lovers on radar."

Rowan stiffened. His eyes widened.

And his sandwich—half-eaten, still clutched in his trembling hand—slipped through his fingers.

Four stories down.

Splat.

A distant cry rose up: "What the hell?!"

Lightning clapped, sparkling midair like a war crime in a tiara.

Then she vanished.

Just in time for Catherine Wren, Third Duchess of Jersey, to step onto the rooftop like it was the quarterdeck of a dreadnought.

She wasn't in uniform. Not quite.

She was in something older. A sharp-lined black greatcoat trimmed in gold, open just enough to reveal a waistcoat of imperial red and an elegant cravat at her throat. Brass buttons glinted down the front. Her blue-black hair was tied back in ponytail, thick and regal beneath a tricorne hat. A single silver anchor, one of her circuit seals, gleamed on her cheekbone like a birthright.

She walked with the kind of practiced poise that only women of class could manage. It almost seemed that the very air offered polite nods to her.

When she reached the edge of the roof, she paused—briefly—and then, with effortless grace, flared her coat as she lowered herself into a seated position a respectful distance from him. Her legs crossed at the ankle. Her chin lifted. The breeze teased at her hem, and sunlight kissed the line of her cheek.

Rowan coughed on his own tongue.

Because the Duchess—this living, breathing British war poem—had just weaponized her entire rear deck with the subtlety of a battleship turning broadside.

He was 100% sure naval treaties had been written to prevent that exact silhouette from happening in public. Something that round, in shorts that tight, developed its own gravity.

His brain gave up and started quietly rebooting.

She turned to him with a faint, knowing smile. Not condescending. Not flirtatious.

Gracious.

"Captain Takeda," she said warmly, her voice smooth as port wine over polished oak. "Do forgive the intrusion."

She placed one gloved hand over her heart, then lowered it with deliberate formality.

"And allow me to extend a personal apology… for yesterday morning's breach of conduct. I entered your ready room unannounced. I overstepped. And I saw you in a state not meant for strangers." She gave him the courtesy of a small, respectful bow of her head. "It was improper of me. I hope you can forgive the moment."

Rowan opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

His brain was still buffering somewhere between formal apology and cataclysmic backside reveal, and he had no idea what facial expression he was making. Lightning was certainly not helping. She had begun listing measurements in his ear that he dared not contemplate if he wanted to retain a grip on his sanity.

Catherine, mercifully, didn't seem to mind.

She reached to one side—somehow, he hadn't even noticed the leather satchel she carried—and began unbuckling it with precise, practiced hands.

"I brought lunch," she said simply.

That caught his attention.

"I had it prepared this morning," she continued, tone unchanging, but softer now. "A traditional English repast—sandwiches, tea, something sweet. I thought… perhaps… you might appreciate something normal. Or at least something intentional."

Rowan blinked.

She placed a neatly folded cloth between them, smooth and linen-white against the rooftop concrete, and began setting out a small but elegant meal. Everything was packed in bento-style brass tins—practical, but polished. There were delicate triangle sandwiches, scones wrapped in cloth to keep them warm, a vacuum thermos of what smelled like black tea, and a sealed jar of strawberry preserves.

"I… may have deduced," she added gently, "that you would seek solitude after this morning. And there are few places to find it in the Freshman building. The rooftop seemed a reasonable assumption."

She poured tea into two small ceramic cups without asking. The motion was effortless, like she'd served guests a thousand times in drawing rooms made of polished wood and centuries of expectation.

Rowan watched in stunned silence.

She looked up at him, finally, and there was something different in her expression now. Not duty. Not formality. Something warmer. "I hope you'll accept it," she said. "Not as a bribe. Or a strategy. But as an apology."

Her eyes were earnest. Calm. Completely unguarded.

"I do regret the intrusion."

Rowan swallowed. "…I, uh… yeah. No. I mean yes. I mean—thank you. Really." His voice cracked halfway through, and he hated it.

But she only smiled. A real smile. Not the practiced one from before. One that reached her eyes.

And to his own surprise, Rowan smiled back.

Just a little one, But it was real.

He reached for the sandwich.

Then paused.

It was her eyes that stopped him.

Not her uniform, though it was an impeccable thing—trimmed in gold braid, worn like a legacy. Not her posture, which bespoke years of tutelage in war rooms and wood-paneled drawing rooms. No—it was her eyes.

Crimson.

A deep, unclouded red, like sunlight caught in the lens of a spyglass at dawn.

She looked for all the world like the villainess in some high-stakes courtroom drama—the imperious noblewoman whose name alone could silence a room. And yet… she smiled.

Not with irony. Not with flirtation.

But with gentle, disarming sincerity.

She had brought tea. She had laid out sandwiches and jam, warm scones wrapped in cloth. And she had not asked for anything.

Just then, she seemed to recall herself. She sat straighter, adjusted the set of her shoulders as if squaring for a speech at sea.

"Oh!" she said, a soft laugh escaping her lips like a flag of truce. "How dreadfully rude of me."

She extended her hand—not as a challenge, not as command, but as a gesture of courtesy so well-practiced it bordered on sacred.

"I have introduced myself to every soul aboard this floating college," she said, the words clipped and polished as brass on a quarterdeck. "All save the one whose opinion ought matter most."

She inclined her head with the composure of a ship coming to port.

"I am the HMS Hood," she said, with a reverence that did not seek admiration but carried it like a tide. "Third Duchess of Jersey. It is my pleasure—and my honour—to make your acquaintance, Captain Takeda."

Her gloved hand remained extended. Steady. Unhurried.

Rowan stared at it for a moment longer than he ought. Then, gently, almost sheepishly, he took it.

Her grip was firm. Not forceful. A captain's handshake—the kind that seals treaties, not battles.

"I—uh. Rowan," he said, flustered. "Takeda. Yeah. It's nice to meet you too. Officially."

She released his hand without a single wasted motion and turned back to the spread before them.

"I do hope the offering meets your standards," she said. "I'm afraid I lack the cultural grounding to know what comforts a Florida-born man might require after being... very nearly boarded and taken." Her smile turned just a touch mischievous. "But I am well-practiced in the English art of restorative tea. It has seen our sailors through gales and revolutions alike."

She poured a second cup, steam curling like signal smoke into the open sky.

And Rowan, stunned into silence, could only nod.

Because for the first time all morning—

someone had approached him not as a prize, nor a prophecy… but as a fellow Captain.

And that, more than tea, more than jam, more than even her eyes, was what undid him.

Hood saw his shoulders relax and thought quietly to herself. "That's it, relax. I'm not going to be pushy. Just come into the range of my guns of your own accord, Master Takeda."

Lightning clocked the soft predatory nature of Hood. How very dangerous she was and invisibly giggled, kicking her tiny digital feet. Oh goofy boy. You are playing right into her hands and I am loving every second of it.