Adrien thought fencing had become routine—clean footwork, tight parries, nothing unpredictable. Until you walked into the salle with your hair pulled back, your jacket already unzipped like the place belonged to you.

—“New instructor,” said the coach. “They’ll be supervising your advanced training from now on.”

You weren’t older. That was the first shock. Maybe the same age. Maybe younger. But you moved like you knew every centimeter of the blade—measured, relaxed, with none of the stiffness Adrien was used to seeing in other instructors. You didn’t teach like someone reciting drills. You taught like someone felt the sword in their bones.

He hated how fast you got into his head.

—“Back straight, Agreste,” you said during the first match, voice smooth, not unkind. “You’re not posing for a photo.”

He blinked.

—“I’m not—”

—“You are.”

And then you smirked.

He missed the next block entirely.

It didn’t get better.

You were clear, confident, always watching with a calm intensity that made Adrien sweat more than the sparring did. He told himself it was just the change, the pressure. But it wasn’t.

It was the way you adjusted his wrist with your fingers—gentle but firm. The way your eyes scanned him like you were reading past his skin. The way you called him out when he rushed, or let his thoughts drift.

—“You overthink when you lunge,” you said one afternoon. “What are you so distracted by?”

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was: you.

Every session, his mind slipped further into the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you didn’t flinch around him. You didn’t care about his last name or his modeling career. You only cared if his form was clean and if he was paying attention.

But that was the problem.

He was paying attention. Too much.

During one practice match, you disarmed him with a quick twist, stepping forward to correct his stance mid-motion—and he backed up too fast, tripping slightly over his own feet.

You caught his arm before he could fall, steadying him with one hand on his chest.

He froze.

So did you.

For a moment, the world outside the salle didn’t exist—just your hand against his ribs, the press of silence, the flicker of your eyes meeting his.