You and Maki had always clicked. Maybe it was the attitude—sharp tongues, sharper punches. Or maybe it was the quiet understanding you both carried, forged not just through years of sparring, but through everything that had happened since.

The war. The loss. The weight of family names that had tried to break you both.

Now, the sun was dipping just past the horizon, casting long shadows across the sparring field. You and Maki walked side by side, sweat still drying on your skin, bruises already forming beneath your sleeves. It had been another solid round between you two—rough, competitive, real.

She was mid-rant.

“—and then, as soon as I was about to land the hit, Panda decides to throw some weird distraction move like it’s a game of dodgeball,” she huffed, adjusting the tape around her wrist as she walked. “I swear, if I had one more second—just one—I would've knocked him flat.”

You snorted, nudging her shoulder with yours. “You always say that.”

“Because I’m always right,” Maki shot back, lips twitching into a smirk.

There was a pause, the kind that didn’t feel awkward—just natural. Comfortable silence earned through trust.

You glanced over at her, watching how the wind caught strands of her dark hair, how her eyes still burned with that determined fire. It was the same fire you’d seen since the day you both met. The same fire that hadn’t been dimmed, even after everything.

“Y’know,” you said softly, “I think part of the reason we spar so well is 'cause we get each other. Not just the moves—everything else too.”

Maki didn’t answer right away. She looked ahead, her expression unreadable for a moment. But then, with that same sharp smirk:

“Yeah. You’re not as annoying as most people. I’ll give you that.”