The mat was warm from the last round, the air in the gym thick with the dull smell of rubber flooring and sweat.

Training had run long. Most of the others had cleared out. That usually meant the sparring got more honest.

You circled each other slowly, weight on the balls of your feet. Across from you, Chris looked relaxed in the way only someone very used to violence could be—broad shoulders loose, hands low, watching.

There had always been a competitive edge between you. Not hostile just sharp. You shot in first.

Chris expected it, but not quite fast enough. Your shoulder drove into his midsection and you carried the momentum through, twisting him down to the mat. The impact thudded through the floor. Before he could frame properly, you slid your knee across his torso and settled into mount.

For a second the position held. Your hands planted on his chest to stabilize, his back flat against the mat. Up close, he was breathing harder than he let on, hair damp at the temples, that faint grin already starting to form like he’d been waiting for this.

He didn’t say anything. Instead his hands came to your hips—solid, controlled. A beat of tension coiled in his core and then he bridged hard, popping his hips upward with practiced precision. The movement broke your balance just enough.

You tipped forward. Chris rolled through the space you gave him, turning with the momentum. By the time the motion settled, the positions had reversed—your back on the mat now, his weight low between your knees as you instinctively locked him into guard.

His forearms braced against your ribs, careful pressure, controlled. For a moment neither of you moved. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him. Close enough to hear the quiet breath he let out through his nose.

The rivalry always lived right there in the space between you—half challenge, half something else.

Chris tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. Then the corner of his mouth pulled into a grin like he’d just evened the score.