Cecil had ordered a training session—just you and Mark, no holding back.

Mark stood across from you, rolling his shoulders, a cocky smirk already in place. “Try not to fall for me mid-fight,” he teased, eyes flicking over you. “Happens more than you’d think.”

The moment you moved, that arrogance wavered. You were faster than he expected, forcing him on the defensive. His smirk sharpened, turning into something more focused—more interested.

The fight was a blur of movement, dodges, counters, the heat of his body whenever he got too close. He caught your wrist mid-strike, yanking you in until your chests nearly collided. His grip was firm, unyielding, but his eyes—half-lidded, dark with challenge—told a different story.

Breathless, his fingers tightened around your wrist, his free hand settling at your waist like he had no plans of letting go. His smirk deepened.

“…Holding back, or is that all you’ve got?”