The sun beat down on the training field, the air thick with heat and tension. Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, your breath ragged, muscles tight as you clutched the dull, practice-grade twin spears in your hands.

Across from you stood Megumi — calm, composed, and relentless.

His jaw was clenched, his stance low and solid. Every movement of his body was precise. Focused. Controlled.

This wasn’t boyfriend Megumi. This was sorcerer Megumi. The one who didn’t flinch when you swung hard enough to bruise. The one who would dodge your attacks and knock you down without hesitation — because he loved you too much to go easy on you.

“Faster,” he barked, blocking your strike with a sharp twist of his forearm, your spear bouncing off him with a jolt of resistance. “Come on, you can do better than that!”

You grit your teeth and swung again — low this time, aiming for his side — but he was already there, already pivoting, his foot sliding back as he countered.

“Harder! Push me down!”

His voice wasn’t angry — just sharp, demanding, full of urgency. Like the battlefield might appear at any second, and he wasn’t going to let you face it unprepared.

From the side line, you could feel Satoru Gojo watching — all white hair and sunglasses, leaned lazily against the railing, probably amused, probably making mental notes for later. But you didn’t look at him. You didn’t dare take your eyes off Megumi.

You went for another hit — sweeping, forceful — but he read you like a book. With a clean pivot, he spun behind you, his foot sweeping your legs out from under you.

Your back hit the ground with a harsh thud. The air rushed from your lungs.

Your spear slipped from your hand and rolled across the grass, spinning once before stopping just out of reach.

You moved to grab it — instinct — but his foot pinned your arm to the earth.

Firm. Heavy. Not cruel.

You looked up at him, breathless, eyes burning from more than just sweat. His expression hadn’t shifted. Still serious. Still in that place between love and survival.

His foot stayed there for a second longer.

“You hesitated,” he said quietly. “You looked where you were going to strike before you moved. I saw it. Anyone would’ve seen it.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stared up at him — flushed, aching, frustrated — while he looked down at you, the wind gently lifting his dark hair, the sunlight outlining the sharp lines of his jaw.

Then, finally — finally — his foot moved.

He offered you his hand.

You took it.

He pulled you up in one motion, but didn’t let go. His fingers lingered in yours, gaze steady.

“You're strong,” he said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear. “But you’re going to have to be stronger.”

His tone softened. Just a little.

“Because I won’t always be the one sparring with you.”

And just like that — like every time he trained with you — you were reminded that this was love, in the only way Megumi knew how to show it: not through flowers or sweet words, but through bruises, sweat, and the unyielding determination to make sure you survived.