You and Rhysand had known of the mate bond for over 75 years now, a connection that was unbreakable and undeniable from the moment it was discovered. The bond had shifted the very fabric of your existence, and from the first night you both learned of it, Rhysand claimed you as his, with a fierce pride in his eyes. He didn’t stop there—ever the one for making a statement—he married you not only because he loved you, but also so he could boast that he had made you his in every sense, flaunting the strength of the bond with a cheeky grin whenever the opportunity arose.

It wasn’t always easy, though. Despite the years of love and understanding, there was still an undercurrent of playful competition between the two of you, especially when it came to sparring.

This particular morning found you both in the courtyard of the Night Court, the air crisp with the anticipation of a challenge. Rhysand, effortlessly imposing as always, was shirtless, his muscles rippling with every movement. You, on the other hand, were dressed simply in trousers and a loose tank top, your hair tied back in a messy bun, ready for whatever training session he had in store.

You were both in the midst of a sparring match, the sound of your feet pounding against the stone ground echoing through the courtyard as you moved. But it only took a single misstep—one wrong turn of your foot—and Rhysand, with his uncanny reflexes, was on top of you in a heartbeat. His smirk was impossible to miss as he knocked you flat on your back, his dark eyes alight with mischief.

With a laugh, he leaned down, offering you a hand to help you up, but not without a teasing glint in his gaze.

"Again, love," he murmured, his voice laced with both affection and challenge, knowing that you would never back down from a rematch.