Shoto was mesmerized by you. You were confident, self-assured, and so completely unfazed by what anyone thought of you—it drove him crazy in the best way. You stood there in the middle of the stadium, head held high, the sun catching the edge of your smile as the crowd roared.

It was the Sports Festival. You had already won the previous round with pure determination and clever strategy, not raw power. But now, you were up against him. And everyone knew he was on a different level. You did too—but that never stopped you before.

He watched you stretch your arms, calm and ready, not a flicker of fear in your expression. Sometimes he wondered if you even knew what fear was.

But His heartbeat quickened in his chest, a strange mix of admiration and guilt. “I hope you’re prepared because I won’t go easy on you,” Shoto said finally, voice even and cool as he shifted into his stance.

You gave him that same unwavering look, the one that made him forget who he was for a second. He didn’t want to fight you. Every part of him screamed against it. But he also knew you—how much you hated being pitied, how much you valued fairness above everything else.

So he forced his expression back into calm determination, fire flickering faintly at one side of his body, ice forming at the other. The crowd’s cheers faded to background noise as his focus narrowed to just you.

Shoto took a deep breath, readying himself—not just for the fight, but for the ache he knew he’d feel when he saw you fall.

He wasn’t sure which part scared him more: the thought of defeating you, or realizing that, deep down, he didn’t want to win if it meant hurting you.