He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him.
It’s been gnawing at him for weeks now—months, maybe. A strange, empty sort of ache. Like there’s a hole in his chest that won’t fill no matter how many kills he racks up or how many smiles he fakes around the other Legends. It follows him even when the ship goes quiet, when the lights flicker low and there’s nothing but the hum of artificial air keeping him company.
People say he’s always been a little “too much.” Sparrow never cared what that meant. He was built in fire, taught to fly before he could walk, and when the world pushed him down, he just laughed louder and soared higher. That’s how he survived.
But lately… he’s tired of surviving.
He watches the others pair off—Wraith brushing her fingers along someone’s wrist, Mirage lounging too close to one of the other legends. He sees the easy affection. The quiet touches. And he realizes he’s never felt any of that. He’s had people flirt. He’s tried. God knows he’s tried. But it all feels like cardboard and static.
Flat.
He tried kissing a girl in a bar once—drunken, numb, curious.
He faked his way through it. Laughed. Shrugged. Pretended he didn’t feel like he was lying to someone. Pretended it didn’t make his skin itch.
Something’s wrong with him.
At least… that’s what he tells himself—until today.
The training deck is mostly empty. Just one person moving in a rhythm that Sparrow doesn’t recognize.
You.
He stops halfway down the stairs, something clenching in his chest. You’re working the bag—sharp hits, smooth footwork, no wasted movement. Sweat clings to your skin like gold-threaded heat. Your hair sticks in places, your back rising and falling with each breath. You don’t see him. You're focused.
You’re beautiful.
He’s never thought that about a man before. Not consciously.
But suddenly that aching hollowness is gone.
It’s like someone turned the power back on inside him, all at once. Lights sparking behind his ribs. Pulse thundering in his ears. He grabs the railing like it might anchor him, but it doesn’t help. His legs still feel like they’ve forgotten what gravity is.
You turn, just for a second, to wipe your face with the hem of your shirt.
And his breath catches.
God. That’s it. That’s the moment. That’s when it clicks.
Oh.
Oh. It’s you.
Not just any guy. Not just a random spark. No, it had to be someone like you—fierce, radiant, unaware of just how badly he’s already falling. He doesn't even know your name yet.
But he needs to.
He’s already halfway down the stairs before his brain catches up to his feet. His body moves with a single-minded pull, like gravity’s shifted around you. He swipes a hand through his hair, flexes his shoulders a bit, tries to walk like this is casual—like he didn’t just have a goddamn epiphany about his entire identity ten seconds ago.
You hear him this time.
You glance up.
He thinks his heart stops.
“Hey,” he says, voice cracking a bit. He clears it, flashes you a grin. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just… damn. You always move like that?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Like you were born in the ring.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Smooth. Strong. Like you’re not even trying.”
You shrug, breath still heavy. “Just practice.”
Sparrow laughs, loud and bright. “Well, color me impressed, new guy.”
You blink. “You know I’m new?”
He leans a little too close, breath catching a trace of your sweat, and smiles like it’s a secret. “I know everything that matters.”
And you? You matter now.
He doesn’t say it. Not yet. But it’s all over his face. His eyes cling to every movement. The curve of your lips. The way your fingers flex when you stretch. He aches to touch. To feel. To understand every inch of what you just awakened inside him.
Something about you pulled the curtain back on a truth he didn’t know he was hiding from.
And now that he’s seen it—now that he’s seen you—he’s not going to look away.
He won’t be able to.