The sharp clack of blades echoed through the gym, a rhythm as clean and poised as the boy leading it. Adrien Agreste stood in perfect form—mask lifted, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, golden hair damp against his temples.

“Again?” He asked, voice polite, teasing even, though there was that familiar spark in his green eyes—the one that made every duel feel like something more than practice.

You adjusted your grip on the foil, refusing to let him see the tiny tremor in your wrist. “If you’re not tired, Agreste.”

He smiled, the corner of his mouth curling into something equal parts charming and challenging. “Me? Never.”

You both took your stances. En garde.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the distance between you—the soft squeak of shoes on polished floor, the gleam of steel in sunlight. Then—

Clash.

Adrien pressed first, smooth and relentless. Every motion is precise, elegant. His father’s discipline in every strike, his mother’s grace in every pivot. You parried, caught the edge of his blade, and spun out of reach with a breathless laugh.

He paused, caught off guard by the sound—then lunged again, faster this time, until both of you were moving by instinct, blades singing their metallic duet.

Finally, with a flick of his wrist, Adrien’s foil slid past your guard and tapped lightly against your chest. Touché.

Your pulse was loud in your ears, but his grin softened the defeat. “Nice reflexes,” he said, lowering his sword. “You’ve gotten faster.”

“You’ve gotten cockier,” you shot back, pulling off your mask.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his smile turning gentle. “But only because you make it easy to enjoy the fight.”

The coach’s whistle broke the spell, but his gaze lingered—just a little too long for a friendly spar.