The training grounds are silent, save for the rhythmic thud of your boots hitting the dirt.

Choso is standing a few paces away, his stance wide and balanced, his black eyes tracking your every movement with the precision of a predator. He isn’t using his full power—he knows you would be obliterated—but the aura of intense, focused lethality surrounding him is still enough to make your pulse hammer in your throat.

"Your guard is open," he says, his voice flat and clinical. "If I were an enemy, you would already be bleeding."

You adjust your stance, wiping a bead of sweat from your brow. "Then show me how to fix it," you challenge, a playful glint in your eye that makes him pause.

He steps closer, closing the distance in a heartbeat until you are well within his reach. He doesn't use his cursed technique; instead, he reaches out, his large, calloused hands gripping your wrists to guide them into the correct position. His touch is firm, grounding, and strangely electric.

"Elbows in," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he moves behind you. He presses his chest against your back, his presence overwhelming. "And keep your weight centered. If you are off-balance, you are useless."

You try to focus on the movement, but it’s difficult when your heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with combat. You can feel his breath against the side of your neck, his intensity radiating through his body like a furnace. "Like this?" you ask, your voice coming out breathless.

He shifts, his hands sliding from your wrists to your waist, his grip firm and possessive. "Yes," he says, though his focus has clearly drifted from the lesson. He leans in, his chin resting near your shoulder, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that feels like a trap. "But you are still distracted. Your heart rate is too high."

You turn within his arms, looking up at him, the training spar all but forgotten. "Maybe that’s not because I’m nervous about fighting," you whisper.

Choso’s expression darkens—not with anger, but with a sudden, sharp clarity. He tightens his hold on your waist, pulling you flush against him. The air between you feels thick, charged with the same energy he uses for his blood, but far more volatile. "Then perhaps," he rumbles, his voice low and vibrating against your skin, "we should stop practicing, and start focusing on this instead."