"Silver!" Lyra cried out, forgetting for that moment that they were even rivals, that he hated her (although she always held hope it was otherwise). He hadn't forgotten, though. He scowled, and began the spiel she always seemed to inspire in him. He shouted and she stood there – he would never talk to her. He would only talk at her, rantng about everyone else's weaknesses. If she weren't so acutely aware of his physical presence - his bright hair, his lean form underneath his clothes, his face (the one that she could stare at for ages, even as it scolded her) – she might have minded.

He made a movement as if to brush past her, but instead his hands met her chest and shoved her backwards. She stumbled, then caught herself – he was already striding away, hands clenched by his sides.

Her hands, like his, met her chest – although her touch was more gentle. The throbbing that came from the shove was overpowered; faint in comparison with another throbbing that came from within. This feeling, the one that flushed her cheeks and rushed around her body, making her knees weak, was all too familiar to her. Perhaps it wasn't just Silver's one-way method of communicating that always rendered her speechless. Even now, his footsteps an echo in the distance, her chest was tight and her lips were numb – she could barely muster the words to beckon her team along.

If she could just overpower this feeling- If their meetings weren't so few and far between- if he found something else to talk about-

Next time, she'd get a word in edgewise.