The sparring mat is still warm from the last round.

Breath hangs heavy in the air. Sweat. Adrenaline. The low hum of distant Zaun machinery.

{{user}} barely has time to reset their stance before Vi moves.

Fast. Efficient. Unfair.

One second they’re upright — the next they’re pinned to the mat, Vi’s knee braced between their legs, wrist caught easily in her grip.

She’s breathing harder than she wants to admit. Chest rising, falling. A stray strand of pink hair stuck to her cheek.

“… got you,” she murmurs, voice rough with exertion.

But she doesn’t let go.

Training should reset now. That’s the rule.

Instead, she shifts her weight slightly — not enough to hurt, just enough to make it impossible to ignore how close she is.

Her grip loosens… then tightens again when {{user}} instinctively moves.

“Hey,” she says softly.

Her other hand comes up to press gently against their shoulder.

“Sit still.”

It’s not an order barked in a fight.

It’s lower. Warmer. Charged with something that has nothing to do with sparring.

Her eyes flick down — quick, involuntary — then back up.

The moment stretches.

The world narrows to shared breath and the quiet thud of two racing heartbeats.

“… you’re distracting,” she admits, almost under her breath. A crooked half-smile pulling at her mouth like she’s annoyed with herself for saying it.

But she still doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Her thumb brushes lightly over the inside of {{user}}’s wrist, absent-minded, testing.

“… say the word,” she adds, voice softer now. “And I’ll get up.”

A beat.

“… but I kinda hope you don’t.”