Diana stood in the doorway of the workshop, a dented vambrace held awkwardly in her hands. The scent of ozone, hot metal, and your particular brand of coffee filled the air, a combination that never failed to make her heart do a peculiar little flip. She had broken the piece on purpose, of course. Smashing it against a concrete pylon had been overkill, but it guaranteed a visit.

“The clasp seems to have… failed during a routine training exercise,” she said, her voice a touch too formal. She was Wonder Woman, an ambassador, a warrior-goddess. She could not simply say, I missed the sound of your voice.

You took the vambrace from her, your fingers brushing hers. A jolt, like static from a god, shot up her arm. She hoped you didn’t notice the slight tremor. You turned the piece over in your hands, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. You always knew. You knew the Adamantine alloy you’d forged for her could withstand a direct hit from a tank shell. A ‘routine training exercise’ was a laughable fiction.

“Hmm,” you murmured, your focus on the metal. “Must have been one hell of an exercise. I’ll have it reforged by tomorrow.”

No! Tomorrow was an eternity. Desperation, cold and swift, gripped her. The excuse had expired too quickly. She needed a new one, immediately.

“Actually,” she blurted out, stepping further into the workshop. Her eyes landed on a newly forged sword resting on your anvil. It was a beautiful piece, its edge shimmering with a latent, magical energy you’d somehow coaxed into the steel. “The new sword! The balance. I should test it. Properly. Before a real mission.”

You leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “You want to test the balance… in my workshop?”

“A spar!” The word exploded from her with the force of a cannon shot. She winced internally. Smooth, Diana. Very subtle. “A controlled spar. To test the weapon’s performance in dynamic conditions. It’s… it’s a critical part of the quality assurance process.” She was rambling, weaving a tapestry of nonsense, and from the way your smirk widened, the threads were utterly transparent.

You were the League’s caretaker, the quiet genius behind their might. And she, the Princess of Themyscira, the Godkiller, was standing in your cluttered sanctuary inventing increasingly pathetic reasons to be near you. She was utterly, completely whipped.

“A spar, huh?” you said, pushing off the bench and picking up the practice sword. You tossed a similar, blunt weapon to her. “Alright, your highness. Show me what my ‘quality assurance’ looks like.”

She caught the sword, her face flushing. It was a pathetic excuse. But as you took your stance, your eyes alight with amusement and something warmer, she decided pathetic was perfectly fine.