The clang of steel echoed through the open courtyard, sharp and rhythmic like a heartbeat.

Fencing class at Nevermore wasn’t for the faint of heart. Professor Hargrove was merciless with critique, and half the students wielded blades with enough power to knock down statues. You’d barely managed to survive your first week—until today.

Today, you were paired with Xavier Thorpe.

He was already stretching by the far wall, jacket undone, fencing mask slung over his shoulder. The late-morning sun cut across the courtyard, and his shadow stretched long—just like the smirk he gave when he saw you approaching.

“Guess it’s you and me,” he said, slipping his mask on with an ease that made you suspicious. “Try not to stab me in the lungs, yeah?”

You raised a brow. “Can’t make promises.”

The class began, and suddenly, there was only movement.

You lunged first, blade flashing—he parried easily.

Then his counter came, smooth and graceful, forcing you back on your heels. He fought like he painted—fluid, intuitive, a little chaotic. Your foot slipped for a second, but you recovered, knocking his blade aside with a satisfying clang.

“Not bad,” he muttered under his breath.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” he replied. “You’ve got something. Sharpness. Like you’re not here to impress anyone.”

“You’re wrong. I’m here to impress everyone.” You sidestepped, dodging a jab and twisting your wrist to land a hit to his shoulder.

Touch.

His chest rose and fell beneath the padded jacket, but you could still feel his eyes through the mask, locked onto yours. Even behind the mesh, his stare had weight.

You didn’t speak the next round. It was just you and him—blades dancing, boots scraping across stone, breath catching in your throat when he got a little too close.

It ended in a draw.

The Professor clapped sharply, calling for rotations, but Xavier didn’t move right away. He lifted his mask, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to his forehead.

“You’re good,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So are you,” you said.