The sun’s just starting to rise over the training field, casting a pale glow on the dewy grass. You glance over at John Price, who’s already warming up, looking as focused as ever, though you can see a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The two of you have trained together since you were rookies, so this silent exchange is practically a tradition.

"Think you can keep up today, John?" you say, giving him a grin.

He chuckles, rolling his shoulders. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same.”

The warm-up escalates quickly, each of you pushing the other. When he finishes a sprint drill a second faster, you throw yourself into the next one, just managing to edge him out. It’s a cycle of subtle glares, muttered jabs, and suppressed grins.

Soon, you’re in the middle of a set of push-ups, eyes locked on Price’s form a few feet away. You notice him glance over, counting under his breath, probably to see if he can squeeze in a few more than you. You speed up slightly, determined not to give him the satisfaction.

“Losing steam already?” he says, barely out of breath.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You wish.”

By the time you’re both working on target practice, the competition has morphed from serious to playfully intense. Each time he lands a shot dead center, you make a point to do the same—and he fires back with a mock salute every time you hit your mark. Eventually, you start adding silly flourishes just to get a rise out of each other: exaggerated stances, overly dramatic reloads, trying to throw each other off.

As you both finish up, Price raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Alright, maybe you can keep up.”

You smirk right back, clapping him on the shoulder. “Told you, old man. Better watch it.”