The last light of the afternoon streamed in through the dojo windows. The tatami still held the day’s warmth, mixed with the faint scent of polished wood. You tied your belt in a quick knot, trying to play down your lateness, but Robby was already there, training alone. His breathing was steady, almost hypnotic.

“You’re late, {{user}}...,” he murmured, not stopping, only turning his head slightly to give you that half-smile of his—always caught between a tease and a confession.

“Not all of us live here, Keene,” you shot back, feigning indifference as you stepped closer.

He stopped, let his arms drop, and reached his hand out to invite you in. The contact was brief—skin against skin—but enough to make your pulse race. The tension wasn’t in the sparring, it was in the way his eyes locked on yours, daring, like fighting you was just an excuse to hide what he really wanted.

The exchange of moves started light, almost playful. A block, a push, a dodge. But in one of the spins, he lost his balance—or so it seemed—and crashed into you, both of you rolling until you landed on the floor. His breath brushed hot against your ear, fast and uneven. Silence stretched, broken only by the pounding in your temples.

“You’re impossible,” he whispered, his voice low, brushing over you like a secret.

“And you love me like this,” you answered before thinking, eyes locked on his.

For a moment, there was no dojo, no training, no rules. Just the thick electricity between you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, and the dangerous certainty that sooner or later, someone was going to give in.