Within Engagement Range

Rowan groaned, rolled over, and reached for his phone with the grace of a man freshly kicked in the soul.

7:02 AM.

He blinked. Squinted.

Nope. Still seven.

"Jiminy Christmas," he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. "How the hell do they have the energy to be this argumentative this early?"

From somewhere above his pillow, Lightning scoffed. "They were raised by seagulls. It's the only explanation."

Rowan snorted. "That would actually explain a lot."

Outside, muffled through the heavy dorm door, came the unmistakable sounds of combat—verbal, at least. Two very distinct accents were trading barbs in escalating volume, each sentence sharper and more florally worded than the last.

He rolled out of bed with all the grace of a sloth doing yoga and stumbled upright, hair a total mess, boxers hanging unevenly.

"What are they doing in the boys' dorm?" he mumbled, rubbing his face. "Did they break in?"

Lightning disappeared from view in a shimmer of static.

A second later, the circuit seals on his right arm lit up in bright cobalt, the lightning bolt circuit seals under his skin glowing faintly with Lightning's telltale sign of mischief.

Rowan turned sharply and pointed at the nearest wall socket. "Hey! Hey hey hey! What the hell are you doing?!" It was way too early for shenanigans.

"Relax, Cap," Lightning giggled, her voice purring out of the wall speaker like the smug digital ghost she was. "Just checking the security system. Turns out they checked in at six this morning with a keycard. Totally legit."

He blinked. "Wait… you can do that?"

Her face popped up beside the coffee machine in her ghostly form, grinning wide. "I am your Frame's AI plus I'm awesome! I can see everything, all you gotta do is ask!"

"Ok, that's sick!" Rowan held up his hand.

She manifested her hand and high-fived him, proud as hell.

Still yawning, he wandered over to the stainless steel fridge, cracked open a cold can of soda—because he was deeply caffeine-dependent and even problem solving required a jumpstart. He reached down beside his bed and pulled on a pair of checkered sleep pants. Then he padded barefoot into the hallway.

Rowan strode past the three dormant doors that marked the other, blissfully quiet rooms on the hall. His was the furthest—naturally. And somehow, the closer he got to their room, the louder everything became, until the noise was less sound and more… pressure. A low-grade sonic wall.

Impressive, really.

"Good Lord, Cap," Lightning chirped in his head, tone half alarmed, half fascinated. "They're peaking at sixty decibels. Indoors. Without a mic."

Rowan winced and stuck a finger in his left ear, while covering his right with the Coke can.

Outside their door were several heaped boxes—clothes, mostly, but also homey-looking bits and pieces. Blankets. Dishes. A shower curtain embroidered with the Union Jack. Another with a black eagle motif and a stern note attached that read, "Do not bleach."

It was… embarrassingly easy to tell whose stuff was whose.

Bismarck's was practical. Neatly folded in disposable, flat-pack boxes. Everything was military-issue adjacent. Mostly plain but with the faintest whispers of softness—blush-toned pillowcases, a hand-stitched tea towel—like femininity kept tucked away, only barely allowed.

Hood's, meanwhile, looked like the Titanic had disgorged her steamer trunks onto the tile. Actual, honest-to-God trunks with brass buckles and floral engraving. Lace and doilies spilled from them like some Victorian duchess had panic-packed for war.

Yeah.

This was going to go great.

"Diesel and pressure," Rowan muttered under his breath, smirking.

Then for some reason, the only navy quote he could remember popped into his head. Strangely, it was very apropos. He thought toward Lightning: "Out of the way, this is Ching Lee… I'm coming through."

She appeared in front of him midair, tossed off a mock-serious salute, and intoned, "Good luck and Godspeed, Admiral."

And with that, he stepped around the corner of their open door.

"Ladies," Rowan yawned, lifting his Coke can in casual salute, "can we please drop the volume to screaming level? You're both operating somewhere in the sonar register."

Both girls jumped like they'd been caught mid-crime.

Bismarck made a noise.

He wasn't sure there was a proper English word for it—somewhere between a squeak and the sound a pressure valve makes when it releases steam too fast. A noise so uncharacteristically girlish that Lightning nearly popped into existence involuntarily, laughing so hard she was crying.

Hood, on the other hand, straightened so violently she nearly concussed herself on the dresser.

"Great Heavens!" she gasped, retreating a full step back.

In the sudden, stunned silence, Rowan just gave them a sleepy, crooked smile. He was shirtless, after all—nothing but a pair of soft flannel pants, tousled hair, and the faint glow of his circuit seals illuminating his skin like buried lightning. The stylized thunderbird mark on his chest pulsed once.

"Sorry about that," he said, as if he were the intruder here. "Didn't mean to frighten you. May I come in?"

And for a long, strange moment… neither woman said a word.

They just stared.

---

From Bismarck's perspective, the moment slowed to a halt.

The argument—forgotten.

The Picasso—irrelevant.

Even Hood's latest bout of snobbery evaporated from the room like mist burned off by sunlight.

Because Rowan Takeda, Captain of the ICS Lightning, walked through the door like some half-dressed Fabio from a shampoo commercial. Sleep-rumpled hair, bare feet, and a Coke can dangling from his hand like it belonged there.

And then—the glow.

Those circuit lines across his chest and arm pulsed with a gentle lightning-bolt blue, highlighting every defined plane of muscle with soft, unearthly brilliance. It marked his bond with Lightning, an added bit of unearthlyness to him. None of their seals lit up at random like that but he almost always had some part of himself lit up a soft cobalt. Like Lightning floated through his veins just below his skin, causing her Captain to glow like the inside of a reactor core—alive, warm and impossibly radiant.

And that mark on his chest—Thunderbird sigil, silvered at the edges—beat once like a second heart, just above the faintest hint of a healing scar. The one she'd put there.

Her mouth went dry.

Rowan, oblivious, yawned again and scratched at the back of his neck, every inch of his lean, sculpted frame on full display like some kind of living art piece. He wasn't huge. Not like American jock huge. No, this was something finer. Like a bladesmith's idea of perfection. That high-cheekboned, narrow-waisted, effortlessly devastating type of beauty.

Aesthetically pleasent, artistic in stance and utterly intoxicating.

Bismarck made a noise she would never acknowledge as a squeak. Not even under interrogation.

She wanted to salute. She wanted to hide. She wanted very much to not be holding his social life hostage and instead ask for a proper date.

She settled for standing very, very still.

Her eyes did not move. Her thoughts, however, were screaming at parade-ground volume.

Get it together, girl. You have brothers. You've seen abs before. Those are just lightly glowing super-abs with faintly divine properties. Stop looking. Stop looking. Stop—

"Sorry about that," Rowan said with a smile that could've ended wars. "Didn't mean to frighten you. May I come in?"

Permission granted, Bismarck thought dazedly.

---

From the perspective of the Third Duchess of Jersey, the sight was nothing short of apocalyptic.

Captain Rowan Takeda stood before her with the casual elegance of a nobleman late to breakfast—bare-chested, tousle-haired, and still dewed in the warmth of sleep. He looked as if he'd rolled out of bed and into legend, every inch of him carved not from flesh but from the marble of some impious Florentine sculptor.

His frame was lean, yes, but formed. The kind of young man a romantic painter might ruin her reputation for. Toned, but not brutish. Sleek, like a rapier just lifted from its velvet sheath. The faintest shimmer of blue traced along his skin—those strange circuit lines that pulsed faintly with each breath, some arcane blessing etched beneath the surface. And there, on the center of his chest, just above a wicked scar, burned the soft-blue glow of his sigil—a stylized thunderbird, beating like a second heart.

And no shirt.

No shirt!

The line of his collarbone could've been used in architectural design. The slope of his stomach, softly gilded by morning light, should've been kept under lock and key. And the trousers—God help her—the drawstring sleep pants hung so low on his hips she could see the architecture of his pelvis.

The Duke of Wellington would've had him arrested for crimes against the crown!

The air in the room thickened, as if decorum itself had taken ill. Hood was quite certain she had gone blind, died, and been reborn in one of those French novels her maid once smuggled in from the port.

He smiled. Smiled! That friendly, open, rakish grin of a young blade who had no idea the calamity he was inflicting upon the moral order.

And spoke. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to frighten you. May I come in?"

Hood's entire body seized like a misfiring boiler. She had a vague awareness of Bismarck making a strangled sound beside her.

But her own voice—when it arrived—was the frayed silk of a nation surrendering.

"Great Heavens."

And yet for both women, the sight was soured by a fresh pink scar on his pale skin, just above his left hip bone. It was clean and could have been caused by anything. But they knew. They knew that it was only there because of the foolishness of their actions. They had marred what should have been perfect.

Red eyes met silver and in that moment a pact was formed, unspoken in that way that only women could manage. They would not let it happen again. As long as he stood there, the blades would stay sheathed. Then they returned their gazes to him.

---

Rowan, for his part, was unraveling.

Neither of them would've known it—his outward expression remained that same bleary, apologetic grin—but inside? He was having what could only be described as a case of the screaming meemees.

Because Bismarck… was wearing exactly what she'd been wearing in his dream!

Grey sleepwear. Soft and comfortable tunic and pants. They were utilitarian, yes, but draped over her... It looked like it belonged in an art book. The neckline had slipped just slightly off one shoulder, revealing a stark white bra strap that contrasted against her pale skin like snow on marble. She looked beautiful. Just like she had in the sleeping place of his brain. Except that her smile was missing... He wondered idly what it would take to put it there. Because it belonged.... Nope! He thought to himself fiercely, Do not do that, Rowan! Belay that!

Rowan promptly looked away, cheeks tinged pink.

This is fine. Totally fine. Just say words. Be normal.

"It is quite alright, Herr Rowan," Bismarck said evenly, voice devoid of shame. "You may come in."

Hood gasped—actually gasped—like she'd just been handed a stolen pistol.

"Don't invite him in!" she hissed, hands clutching at her greatcoat like it might leap off her. "The man is nearly naked!"

Bismarck blinked, genuinely puzzled. "No, he is wearing pants. At this hour we are lucky a boy has on that much."

Hood looked scandalized. Positively Victorian.

"What?!"

Bismarck shrugged. "My brothers often paraded through the house in boxers until Mother shouted at them. This is not unusual."

"Boxers?!" Hood sounded like the very word might cause a faint.

Rowan opened his mouth, then wisely closed it.

Lightning, lounging unseen just above the doorframe, made a sound like a snorted giggle into a wineglass. Rowan ignored her, because if he didn't he was going to start laughing too. Stop it, ya menace! He thought at her violently.

Bismarck shook her head, exasperated by Hood's theatrics, and she stepped out into the hall with Rowan. Her expression softened—just slightly—and she gave Rowan a nod of acknowledgment.

"My apologies for waking you. I didn't think we were being that loud."

Rowan laughed, scratching at the back of his head. "Well… technically, you didn't wake me."

He tilted his head down toward the glowing thunderbird mark on his chest, where a faint glimmer still pulsed through his skin.

"You woke Lightning. Who then decided it was my problem."

From above the lintel, Lightning showed herself simply to give a theatrical hair flip and stick out her tongue before she vanished again.

"You have brothers?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Three," Bismarck replied, already bending to heft a box. "And none of them had any shame."

Before he could respond, she casually shoved the box into his hands. "Carry that for me."

Rowan stumbled, adjusting his grip. "Uh—sure. Where am I going with it?"

Bismarck's eyes flicked toward the room, then toward Hood—and her voice dropped to a hiss so cold it could've flash-froze steam.

"Under the far bed."

The way she stressed the word 'far' made the arrangement crystal clear. Bismarck had been harangued into this.

Rowan, wisely, said nothing.

Hood bristled like a cat at the implication but offered no rebuttal.

Rowan carried the box inside and immediately noticed the difference in their room and his.

The girls' room was… nice. Lavish, even. Polished hardwood floors, soft lamplight, rich mahogany trim. The kind of room that would've felt extravagant back at his old dorm. But compared to his own private suite?

It was smaller. Much smaller.

Instead of two sprawling, king-size four-posters like his, their beds were raised standard frames—just tall enough to cram luggage or storage trunks beneath. Matching dressers lined the far wall, dark-wood and elegant, but plainly utilitarian.

A cozy sitting area wrapped around a low coffee table. A single bookshelf stood proud beside a wall-mounted television, and in the kitchenette, he spotted a one-burner stove and what might have been the tiniest oven on the planet. There was just enough space for two people to move around without stepping on each other's toes… assuming they weren't actively at war.

It wasn't cramped—but it wasn't princely either.

And then he saw the beds.

The one closest to the door was positively regal—done up like a guest suite in an Elizabethan manor house. A heavy white duvet trimmed in navy and gold dominated the frame, with an antique lace bedskirt brushing the polished floorboards. Overstuffed pillows were layered in precise symmetry, one of them proudly bearing a faded but immaculate Union Jack. At the foot of the bed, a cedar chest sat proudly like a footlocker in a debutante's war room. Even the multiple sets of slippers were neatly aligned beneath it.

Hood's, obviously.

The other bed was more modern, utilitarian. Grey sheets, soft but simple. No lace, no flourishes—just comfort. And plushies. So many plushies.

Dozens of them.

A full battalion of stuffed animals was arranged in neat little rows: naval bears, a narwhal, a chubby shark with a tiny sailor cap, and—was that a Blüchi bear in a Kaiserliche Marine uniform?

He tried—really tried—not to smile.

So. The Iron Lady liked her bedtime army soft and squishy. Rowan made a mental note for Friday. If he and Bismarck were going to make a go of this situation, a gift might go a long way.

He bent to slide the box under the "far" bed and straightened up.

Rowan didn't wait to be asked. After tucking the box under Bismarck's bed, he walked back out to grab one of Hood's trunks. She gave him a startled glance—eyebrows rising slightly at his unspoken offer—but didn't object. He just smiled, shuffled backward with the heavy thing, and let the action speak for itself.

Lightning, perched smugly on the windowsill now, watched like a cat studying her terrarium.

No one spoke for a bit, the rustle of blankets and the thump of boxes filling the space instead. But curiosity gnawed at Rowan. Finally, as he slid a crate of porcelain teacups onto a small table, he found his voice.

"So, I don't mean to pry, but... what are you two doing here? In the boys' dorms?"

Hood scoffed, already sounding affronted.

"In her infinite wisdom," she said dryly, "Admiral Ark Royal has determined that Bismarck and I should learn the virtue of cooperation through enforced cohabitation."

Bismarck, organizing her uniforms with precise folds, offered a clipped: "We're to live together."

Rowan looked between them, then raised a brow. "Like, actually live together?"

"Indeed," Hood replied, gathering herself with practiced poise, though the pink in her cheeks betrayed her annoyance. "A punishment most... unique. But she believes, as she put it, that Bismarck and I must either reconcile our differences or collide at full speed."

Bismarck didn't respond, but the flatness of her expression spoke volumes of what she thought of this course that had been set for her.

"And they just… told you to move in here?" Rowan asked, still a bit behind the eight ball. He really needed more caffeine.

Bismarck nodded. "Our keycards were updated last night at twenty-one hundred hours. We are, regrettably, your neighbors now. And we have both lost our private suites."

Lightning popped back into Rowan's vision, arms folded behind her back. "Yep. Just checked in with the schools housing department." She chirped. "Told you it was legit."

Rowan let out a breath, then shook his head with a half-laugh. "This school gets weirder every day."