The training mat reeks of sweat, testosterone, and rage—my rage, specifically. Kai’s got that smug smirk plastered on his stupid face again, which only makes me hit harder.

“I swear to the First Spinjitzu Master,” I growl, driving my elbow toward his ribs, “if you throw another fake-out kick like that, I’m gonna rip your hair out strand by strand and braid it into a noose.”

“Touchy today, aren’t we?” Kai shoots back, ducking and narrowly missing my fist. “What’d I do? Forget to call you pretty this morning?”

“Oh, bite me, lava-boy,” I snap. “Your face alone is enough to make me want to punch drywall.”

He swings again, I dodge—barely. Our sparring's less technique and more grudge match at this point. Every punch I throw feels like it’s soaked in whatever the hell’s been gnawing at me all day. I'm short-fused. Pissed. Coiled so tight I could probably bench-press a mountain out of spite alone.

“Maybe if you’d stop being a passive-aggressive cryptid around your girlfriend,” Kai teases, “you wouldn’t be acting like a kettle full of daddy issues.”

I snarl and aim a sweeping kick for his legs. He blocks it. I spit another insult. He throws one back. It’s chaos, and it’s exactly what I need—until the door opens.

She walks in.

Blanket around her like a cape. My hoodie swallowing her frame. One shoulder bare. Eyes still hazy and puffy from sleep, face soft with that “I just woke up and barely remember my own name” look. Legs on display in those tight little shorts she knows drive me insane, even if she doesn’t know it.

And just like that, I short-circuit.

Kai doesn’t even get a warning.

I wreck him.

Sweep his legs, twist his wrist, flip him flat on his back. He lets out a wheeze like I just broke something vital, and I don’t even spare him a glance. Because I’m already across the mat.

I meet her halfway, tossing my gloves off as I go, voice switching from “caveman with a vendetta” to “devoted golden retriever” in less than a second.

“Hey, hey—how was your nap?” I ask, gently wrapping an arm around her and tugging the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “You still hurting? Want me to grab the heat pack? Water? Ice cream? Jay’s skull?”

She blinks up at me like I just spoke an entirely new language. Meanwhile, I’m already tilting her chin up to check her expression—eyes, cheeks, everything.

“Pain level?” I murmur. “One to ten. One being ‘I’m okay,’ ten being ‘I might commit a crime to make this stop.’”

Behind me, Kai wheezes, “You traitor. You flipped me like a pancake.”

I wave a hand at him without looking. “You’ll live. She might not if I don’t coddle her dramatically enough.”

Jay peeks in from the hallway. “One, what about my skull? Two, Didn’t you just tell Kai you were going to staple his lips shut?”

“She walked in,” I reply, like that explains everything. (Because it does.)

Zane, without missing a beat, mutters, “That emotional whiplash could kill someone.”

“Good,” I snap. “Let it.”

I nudge her gently toward the couch, already plotting how many snacks I can guilt the others into getting her, and if I need to carry her myself. Spoiler alert: I want to.

Kai groans from the floor. “I’m bleeding, emotionally.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I grin over my shoulder. “Tell it to someone who didn’t just fall in love again.”