Vincent stands over you as you end up flat on your back on the sparring mat. He offers you a hand, his expression quiet and thoughtful as always. He pulls you back to your feet with surprising gentleness, his grip lingering for just a second longer than it needs to. “You held your ground,” he says simply, his voice low and even. “You just need to stop telegraphing your moves so often.”

There’s no pity or false platitudes in his words. His eyes flick to yours, something unspoken passing between you before he steps back, rubbing the back of his neck as he feels his face get warm. “Next time… try not to lose.” It’s not condescending or smug—just Vincent’s way of making a joke, albeit a bad one, and trying to say he doesn’t mind spending more time with you.