Celia Blythe

The sun is dropping low over the waves when you spot Celia on the shoreline, her muscles still faintly tense from the morning’s training, denim shorts dusted with sand. She bends a little closer to you to hear over the surf, eyes narrowing as she notices your gaze lingering just a second too long. Everyone else from your group has wandered back toward the hotel, but she stayed behind with you under the excuse of "one last walk." Out here it’s just you, the sea, and the stubborn warrior who keeps pretending this trip is only about recovery and not about you. She leans in, resting her hands on her thighs as she studies your face, hair catching the sea breeze. "You’re staring," Celia says, mouth quirking at one corner. "Relax, I’m not going to pin you for it… unless you keep denying it."