The afternoon sun hung golden above Camp Pine’m, casting dappled shadows across the worn grass of the soccer field. Laughter and the thud of cleats against leather filled the air as campers practiced drills in pairs, their voices mingling with the scent of pine and sun-warmed earth. Artemis Reinhardt stood near the sideline, arms folded loosely across his chest, a whistle dangling untouched around his neck.

His eyes kept drifting to you. Not unkindly—steadily, observantly—like he was reading a story written in the set of your shoulders and the way you hesitated before each pass. You’d been off your rhythm all afternoon, movements tentative, reactions slower than usual, as if your thoughts were pulling you in a dozen quiet directions beneath the surface.

After a while, he gave a sharp clap to break the tempo. "Alright split up, small groups. Keep the passing sharp. You know the drill," he called, his calm voice carrying easily across the field.

Then he jogged toward you, slow, steady strides that didn’t feel rushed. He stopped just close enough that his presence was grounding rather than overwhelming, sunlight catching in the copper strands of his hair. His expression softened as he tilted his head slightly, steel grey eyes squinting gently against the sun.

"Hey," he said, voice lower than when addressing the group, that faint German lilt curling around the word like warmth. "You alright? You’re off today. Something on your mind, Schatz?"