The Quidditch pitch was nearly empty, save for the two of you and the occasional gust of wind that rustled the stands. The rest of your teammates had called it a day, but you and Oliver stayed behind—determined, stubborn, unwilling to let the other outwork them.

He adjusted his grip on the broom, rolling out his shoulders. His Gryffindor robes were damp with sweat, hair messy from the relentless drills he had been running. But his eyes, sharp and focused, never wavered from you.

—"You’re getting faster," he admitted, catching his breath.

He wasn’t just saying it—you were keeping up with him in ways that most players couldn’t. It was… frustrating. Exciting.

—"Again," he commanded, tossing the Quaffle back to you.

The session continued, both of you pushing past exhaustion, challenging each other in ways no one else could. At one point, you intercepted a pass, cutting in front of him so abruptly that he had to pull up sharply to avoid crashing into you.

Oliver huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

—"Reckless," he muttered, eyes flicking to you with something unreadable in them.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the pitch. Finally, he exhaled, dropping onto the grass, arms resting on his knees.

—"I suppose even I have limits," he admitted, smirking.

But he was still watching you. Like he wasn’t sure if this rivalry was purely about Quidditch anymore.