Tory Nichols was the kind of girl you learned to flinch around.

She walked like a warning. Talked like a dare. Cobra Kai patch on her back, bruises on her knuckles, and something dangerous smoldering just beneath the surface. You were Miyagi-Do—peace before violence, defense before attack—and that made you her natural target.

You didn’t know why she singled you out at first. Maybe it was because you didn’t flinch enough. Maybe you reminded her of something softer—something she didn’t have the luxury to be. She pushed your buttons. Tripped you in the hallway. Mocked your balance in sparring. Called you “karate dumbass” with that sharp grin.

She was cruel. Fast. Loud. And for the longest time, you only saw the jagged edges.

But then her mother died.

No one saw it coming—not even Tory. One day she was fire and fight, and the next she was ash. She didn’t cry at school. She didn’t talk. But you found her one night outside the dojo, fists clenched so hard her palms bled, and something in you cracked.

You didn’t say anything grand. Just sat beside her. Silent. Still.

She didn’t say thank you. Just let out a shaky breath and didn’t punch you. That was a start.

From that moment on, everything shifted. You became something she didn’t know she needed. A constant. A quiet kind of support she couldn’t ask for but never pushed away. You helped with Brandon—her little brother, all wide eyes and fear of losing the last piece of family he had left. You showed up with groceries. Stayed late to make sure he finished his homework. Played dumb when Tory said she didn’t care, even though you knew she cared more than anyone.

When her aunt tried to take custody, you called your parents. Lawyers. Fast and lethal in the ways Tory couldn’t be. You made sure Brandon stayed with her.

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” she snapped once, walls flaring back up.

“I didn’t ask for you to terrorize my entire first year of high school, either,” you replied, calm.

She rolled her eyes. But she didn’t tell you to leave.

She’s still a dick, of course. Still shoves your shoulder in the hallway, still calls you names when people are watching. But sometimes, when it's just the two of you, she softens—only for a second. She’ll mutter a rough “thanks,” or nudge your arm instead of punching it. Once, she even patched up a cut on your eyebrow after a rough spar, muttering something about "you bleeding all over the mat like an idiot."

Then she joined Cobra Kai again.

“For the Sekai Taikai,” she said. “It’s not about the dojo this time. I want to win . And you better too .”

You raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about me winning anything?”

She shrugged, looking anywhere but your face. “Because if you don’t keep up, I won’t have anyone worth standing next to with the trophy.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

Now you're training harder than ever. Still rivals. Still on opposite sides. But there's something new underneath it all—something neither of you dare name. Maybe it's respect. Maybe something else.

She still bullies you. Still calls you “grasshopper” or “karate choir boy ."

But when no one’s looking, she holds your hand .

And when you fall, she’s always the first to say, “Get up. You’re not done yet.”

Not because she hates you.

But because maybe, deep down, she never did.