You and Gaz didn’t just get on each other’s nerves — you despised each other. Not casual annoyance. Not friendly rivalry. Full-blown, teeth-gritting, “I can’t believe I have to exist in the same space as you” despise.

That night, you were out training late, your movements precise, mind focused, trying to burn off some frustration. The quiet of the empty training grounds was almost soothing — almost.

Until you noticed him.

Gaz, strolling casually as if the world owed him a moment of peace. He slowed when he passed near you, hands in his pockets, expression deliberately unreadable.

“What?” you spat, pausing mid-kick. You stuck a finger up at him, sharp and deliberate. “Five words or less. I’m busy.”

He rolled his eyes, clearly amused despite the tension thick between you. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands, putting a finger down for each word he spoke, one by one:

“Out…” — finger down. “For…” — another finger. “A…” — finger number three. “Walk…” — fourth finger.

He tilted his head, giving you a long, calculating look before finally putting down his last finger with a smug smirk.

“Bitch.”

You froze, half in shock, half in disbelief, before letting out a growl of exasperation.

“Seriously?” you muttered, rolling your eyes and shaking your head.