Teenage Madara was infuriating. Arrogant. Loud. Full of himself. And worst of all? Always beating {{user}} in every sparring match.

“You’re too slow,” he smirked, brushing dust off his armor after knocking her flat—again.

{{user}} growled, cheeks burning—not from pain, but rage. “One day I’m going to wipe that smug look off your face.”

“You can try,” he said, turning with that cocky Uchiha smirk. “But you’ll fall for me first.”

She threw a kunai at him. He caught it. Barehanded. Of course.

They clashed often—on the field, during missions, even during training sessions. To everyone else, it looked like pure rivalry.

But behind the insults, stolen glances lingered too long. When she was injured, he was always the first to find her. When he got too reckless, her voice was the one that stopped him.

One night under the stars, still bruised and breathless from sparring, she muttered, “I hate you.”

He leaned in, barely an inch from her lips. “Good. That means I’ve got your attention.”

And when she didn’t pull away… Madara knew he’d already lost the war.

To her.