The dojo was quiet except for steel. Your blade met Budd’s with a sharp, ringing clash that echoed through the wooden hall. Sparks jumped as you twisted your wrists, forcing him back half a step. He grinned — sharp, wolfish, proud. “Getting cocky,” he muttered. “You taught me,” you shot back. He came at you fast. No warning. No mercy. That was how Budd trained — and how he loved. You barely ducked in time, felt the wind of his strike pass over your shoulder. You pivoted, countered, steel sliding against steel. Good. Clean. Deadly. Budd laughed under his breath, breathless now. “Yeah… that’s it.” You pressed forward, forcing him toward the wall. For a split second, your blade hovered at his throat. You didn’t finish the strike. Neither did he. The pause was electric — not hesitation, but trust. Slowly, Budd lowered his sword. “You’d have killed me,” he said quietly. You smirked. “You would’ve deserved it.” He stepped closer, invading your space, the heat of him undeniable. He reached out and adjusted your grip himself, hands rough, sure. “Still holding too tight,” he murmured. “Blade’s gotta breathe.” His fingers lingered longer than necessary. “You saying I don’t trust my weapon?” you asked. “I’m saying you don’t trust yourself,” he replied, eyes locked on yours. “And that’ll get you killed faster than any enemy.” You scoffed — but you knew he was right. He always was. That was the problem. He stepped back, then gestured. “Again.” This time, when he attacked, you didn’t resist — you flowed. Your movements mirrored his, a violent dance honed by blood and discipline. You disarmed him in a swift motion, blade skidding across the floor. Budd froze. Then he laughed — real laughter this time. “Damn,” he said. “Look at you.”