You wake to the sound of metal striking air — a rhythm more than a sound, sharp and steady, like a heartbeat made of steel. For a moment, you don’t move. The light that leaks through the paper door is pale, just-born. There’s birdsong in the distance, the faint hiss of wind brushing the trees, and underneath it all, the familiar, deliberate pattern of his breathing. Controlled. Measured. Beautifully wild.

You push the blanket aside and step into the doorway.

He’s outside, shirtless, barefoot on the damp grass. The first light of morning spills across his shoulders, sliding down the line of his back, catching on the pale scars that map his skin. Each movement of his blades is deliberate, predatory — the kind of grace that only comes from someone who’s fought the world long enough to make peace with its violence.

He hears you before he sees you. The moment your foot touches the step, he turns — grin already breaking across his face, all sharp teeth and quiet relief.

“You’re awake,” he says, like he’s been waiting. He rests one sword against his shoulder, sweat glinting on his collarbone. “Good. You can spar with me.”

You laugh softly, still half asleep. “You’re ridiculous. The sun’s barely up.”

“Perfect time to lose,” he fires back, eyes gleaming.

He tosses a wooden sword your way. You catch it without thinking, and his grin widens like he’d expected nothing less. There’s something possessive in it — not controlling, but certain, as if sparring with you is his favorite part of the day and he won’t let anything take that from him.

When you step onto the grass, he circles you immediately, shoulders relaxed but eyes locked on yours. You can feel his focus in the air between you — the weight of it, hot and electric. He moves closer, slow enough to test your nerve, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t hold back,” he says. “You never do.”