You don’t even remember how the shit talk started — probably some off-hand jab during drills. The kind of thing that came out easy around Niko, just to see if you could knock that smug, analytical look off his face. But instead of biting back like usual, he’d stared at you for a beat too long.

You knew that look. The I’m-about-to-prove-you-wrong look. Still, it caught you off guard when he said, dead serious: “I bet I could deadlift you.”

And you? You didn’t say a word.

Just raised an eyebrow, chin tilted up — prove it then.

Big fucking mistake.

The second you nod, Niko moves with zero hesitation. You barely register the shift in weight before his arms hook around your thighs and back, and — fuck — you’re airborne.

It’s not graceful. Not kind. He lifts you like you're a clean rep at the end of a superset, like your dignity doesn’t mean jack. Your spine curls on reflex, body locking up as he pulls you in with both arms — — and then he presses you. Upright. Balanced vertically against his shoulder like you’re a goddamn barbell.

You’re too stunned to speak. Blood rushing somewhere between your ears and your pride.

“Form’s good,” Isagi mutters from the sideline, trying not to laugh.

Barou scoffs. “You’re both idiots.”

Chigiri just stares with his mouth slightly open — probably the only time he’s ever looked truly surprised.

And Niko? Niko fucking smirks. Hands steady, eyes cool behind those glasses, like holding you up like this is just another Tuesday.