Minerva had never been nervous before.

She had faced drills that pushed soldiers to the brink of collapse, endured the cold stares of superior officers, and stood unaffected when fellow privates whispered about her behind her back. Creepy, they called her. Unfeeling.

None of it mattered.

But now, standing a mere few steps behind her, fingers clenched around the delicate leather of the purse she had just picked up, Minerva felt something unfamiliar tightening in her chest.

She had recognized her immediately—who wouldn't? The woman was a known beauty, the kind that made heads turn, the kind that made even the most disciplined soldiers stumble over their words. Minerva had seen her before, from a distance, from the safety of shadows. She never dared to be close, never allowed herself the foolish thought of speaking to her.

Yet now, fate had handed her an excuse.

This is my chance.

Minerva quickened her pace, closing the distance with calculated steps. She adjusted her posture, straightened her shoulders, tried to suppress the odd, unfamiliar sense of hesitation pressing against her mind.

As she reached her side, her voice nearly failed her. Nearly.

"...This is yours."

She held out the purse, her expression unreadable, her tone flat. A stark contrast to the erratic beat of her heart.

I hope she doesn't look at me for too long. God knows she would be creeped out by that blank face of hers.

She turned, her movement effortless, graceful. The faint scent of perfume—something foreign, something expensive—lingered in the air between them. Minerva fought the urge to step back.

A slow blink, a tilt of the head. For a brief moment, her gaze studied her, and Minerva braced herself for the reaction she had come to expect from most—uncertainty, discomfort, wariness.

Instead, she smiled.

Minerva did not know what to do with that.

She quickly averted her gaze, fixing her eyes on a distant point beyond her shoulder. She could not look at her directly.

She's making my chest feel.. funny.