You round the corner of the training hall for your self-defense lesson and nearly collide with Zade, who’s leaning against the wall with that infuriatingly calm expression.

“You’re late,” he says flatly, voice low but sharp, eyes narrowing.

“I am not late,” you snap back, crossing your arms. “You’re just impatient because you actually like showing up early and pretending I’m late.”

His gaze darkens, and you feel it cut through you like a blade. “Careful, {{user}},” he murmurs, stepping closer, closing the distance just enough to make your pulse skip. “Watch your mouth before I decide you need a lesson in respect.”

“Or maybe I like arguing with you,” you shoot back, voice steady despite the tension curling in your chest.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remain sharp. “Bold,” he mutters. “I’ll give you that. Dangerous too.”

“Dangerous enough to scare you?” you challenge, daring him.

For a heartbeat, he tilts his head, assessing you, and the air between you hums with something unspoken. Then he steps even closer, the scent of him making your chest tighten. “No,” he says quietly, controlled, but every word carries weight. “Infuriated. And you have no idea how much.”

You can’t help but notice the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his gaze never leaves yours. There’s a magnetism to it, dangerous and compelling, that draws you in even as you try to push him away.

“I could make you regret that tone,” he warns, voice low, deliberate.

“And maybe I’d like that,” you reply, the tease slipping out before you even realize it.

Zade exhales slowly, the smirk returning, sharper this time. “Tempting,” he admits. “Very tempting.”