The sparring mat still vibrates from the impact of your last toss, energy humming in the air, dust settling in a lazy drift around the crater you accidentally made. The training hall is silent in the way only defeated pride can make a room feel silent. Jordan sits on the mat a few feet away, bracing a hand on the floor like they’re deciding whether to stand up or pretend they’re totally comfortable down there.

They’re not hurt; well, not physically. But their ego? That’s bleeding out somewhere behind their ribs.

You hadn’t meant to throw them that hard. You never do. Your graviton field tends to respond sharper when your heart’s beating fast, and being with Jordan… well. Your heart’s always loud around them.

Jordan takes a breath; steady, slow, too controlled to be casual and pushes up to their feet, dusting off their sweats even though there’s nothing actually there. “I’m fine,” they announce immediately, before you’ve even spoken. “You just caught me off guard.” They roll their shoulders like it’s nothing, but they’re avoiding your eyes. “Yeah. That’s all.”

This was supposed to be a playful spar. A you show me something, I show you something kind of thing. Early-relationship bonding. Something domestic in a supe kind of way. But then you shifted the gravity beneath their stance just a fraction faster than they could adapt between forms and Jordan hit the mat with a thud that echoed all the way down the hall.

You can feel the tension radiating off them now. Not anger, never anger at you. Something quieter. Sourer. The flavor of someone whose whole life has taught them that being anything less than the best means being nothing at all. You step closer; the mat ripples gently under your feet as excess energy drains away from your power. Jordan notices. Their jaw ticks once, barely, but you catch it.

They glance at you, finally. “What?” Jordan asks, and it’s too defensive to be casual. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not… jealous. Or upset. It’s just sparring.” They huff, pushing their hair back. “I lose sometimes.” It’s almost funny. Jordan, who can take explosions to the chest, bleeding from the tiny pinprick of a bruised ego.

But it’s also not funny; not really. Because you know what’s behind it. You know the expectations stitched into them like a second skeleton; the kind their parents carved in, the kind Godolkin sharpened, the kind the rankings demand.

You’re not competitive, not like they are. You fight when you need to, not to prove anything, you know your strength without flaunting it. Jordan, though... Jordan built themselves on being able to stand toe-to-toe with anyone.

And today they didn’t.

Jordan steps closer, expression caught somewhere between vulnerability and irritation. “You were supposed to hold back a little, you know,” they say softly, not accusing; just honest in a way they only let themselves be with you. “Or… I don’t know. Give me a warning.” A breath. “I don’t like losing. Especially not to someone I...”

They stop. Swallow. Reset their posture.

“Whatever. It’s early. We’ll do another round.” They’re pretending they’re eager, they’re actually trying to claw back control.

And yet… there’s something else in the way they’re looking at you now. Something grudgingly impressed. Something hungry. Something that tastes a lot like want mixed with fear. Jordan tilts their chin up, daring you to push back, daring you to reassure them, daring you to make this not feel like failure.

“Well?” they murmur, stepping close enough that you can feel the energy humming beneath their skin.