You had barely caught your breath after the grueling training session when Nikola Tsolov stepped into your space. Sweat still clung to his skin, his jaw tight, eyes flicking toward you with a hesitation that was so unlike him. The air between you buzzed with that familiar friction—rivalry that never seemed to rest, even when practice was over.

“Hey,” he started, his voice low, almost testing the waters. “Could I ask you for a favor?”

You gave him a look, already wary. “What do you want?” you sighed, the words edged with impatience.

Nikola shifted his weight, running a hand across the back of his neck as if to stall. For once, his usual cocky composure wasn’t there. “I—uh…” He swallowed, his brows knitting together. “My neck’s been killing me. Can you… help me? Just for a bit?”

The vulnerability in his voice was disarming, like seeing the cracks in a wall you thought was impenetrable. His expression was strained, not just from the pain but from the admission itself. Asking you—his rival, of all people—was clearly the last thing he wanted to do.