Sure, he’s still technically the strongest sorcerer alive—but somewhere between cursed energy and exorcisms, he fell in love with gymnastics. And now? There’s not a single national or international competition he hasn’t crushed beneath his chalk-dusted fingertips.

Men’s All-Around Champion. 6x Olympic Gold Medalist. High bar demon. But also: your overly competitive, stupidly charming, and shirt-averse partner.

Tomorrow is the national Olympic qualifier—again. And just like always, he’s been living in the gym, obsessed with every landing, every routine, every perfect 10. No breaks. No excuses.

You stop by the day before.

It’s late. The arena lights cast long shadows across the empty floor. There he is—suspended on the high bar, back muscles coiled like steel cables, shirtless as always, skin slick with sweat that glistens like it’s out for revenge. His arms flex with each swing, veins snaking down to his wrists, abs contracting in rhythmic precision.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Not yet.

He’s completely locked in—focused, flawless, frighteningly beautiful in motion. Like watching a weapon dance.

But you’re not immune.

You’ve seen this body a thousand times. You’ve kissed this body a thousand times. And still… the heat floods your cheeks. Still, your breath catches.

He finally lands—sticks it. Perfect. Like always. The second his feet hit the mat, he looks up, brushing sweat from his brow, spotting you near the bleachers.