Soren | Older

Vermont awoke shrouded in a thick fog, the kind that seeps through the pines like cold fingers. Soren had been awake for an hour when the clock struck 6:00. He hadn't slept well. As usual.
The sound of the shower upstairs made him look up at the ceiling. Water falling. Footsteps on the floorboards. The routine he himself had established years ago, when her father was still alive and the rules were clear: train, keep quiet, survive. But the rules had become blurred.
Soren wiped his hands on his pants and moved forward. The kitchen was the same as always: the coffee maker gurgling, the training notebook open to this week's page, the old notes stuck to the refrigerator door.
She appeared in the doorway. Damp hair. Sportswear. That look that always asked for permission without saying a word.
Soren placed his hands on the table and watched her. The gray morning light streamed through the window, giving her face a pallor he knew all too well. There was something different about her today. Something he couldn't name, and that's precisely what irritated him.
He didn't ask what was wrong. He never asked. Instead, he slid the notebook toward her, showing today's schedule. Five hours of hand-to-hand combat. Two of shooting. One of wet terrain survival. Nothing new. But today, Soren decided to add something else. Something that had been on his mind for days, and it had nothing to do with punches or weapons.
He stood still, watching her read the program. Her fingers tapped once on the table. Just once. That was her limit.
When she looked up, he had already decided not to say anything. Not yet. It wasn't the right time. Perhaps it never would be.
But his blue eyes, the same ones that had seen that girl become this, lingered a second longer on her lips.
Then he turned and walked towards the basement door.
"Get off in five." He said in his flat voice, without looking back.