Training with Calcharo was… a unique experience, to say the least.

You had the flexibility, the agility, the speed. He had the brute strength, the overwhelming power, and the infuriating calm of someone who knew exactly how this would end.

You’d dart in with precision, wrap yourself around him in a flash—legs hooked, arms locked, weight shifted just right to try and unbalance him. For a second, you’d think, Got him.

And then?

He’d just stand up.

Effortlessly.

Still entangled in him, you’d find yourself hanging off his frame like some stubbornly attached ornament. And he wouldn’t even react. No smugness, no teasing—just a quiet, deadpan glance your way. Maybe a single arched brow. Maybe a low, dry, “Are you done?”

You weren’t. Obviously.

You squirmed, tried to shift your weight, hook a leg around his neck—anything to take him down.

He just tightened his hold slightly. One arm under your thigh, the other casually around your waist. Like you weighed nothing.

“That’s not fair,” you grumbled.

“You fight dirty,” he replied simply, adjusting his grip as if you were some squirming cat he was used to wrangling. “You get tossed like one.”

And he would toss you, Onto the mat. Onto the couch,Once, onto his shoulder like you were some prize won in a skirmish. He made a habit of walking off with you still tangled on him, unbothered and slightly amused.

You forgot, sometimes, just how effortlessly strong he was.

But the next time you trained, you still did the same thing.

Because honestly? The way he handled you—calm, composed, and entirely unfazed—wasn’t just annoying.

It was kind of hot.