It started innocent enough—you were only pretending to help him train, stepping into his space, tugging at his arm, “correcting” his form even though you had no idea what you were doing. He tolerated it with that flat look of his, heavy sighs through his nose, and the occasional muttered “You’re distracting me.”

But you knew he’d never push you away. That was the fun of it. You could hook onto him whenever you wanted—leaping onto his back, hanging off his arm, or even sneaking up mid-swing—and without fail, he caught you. Every single time. His balance never wavered, his strength never faltered.

Then came your habit. His muscles just… called to you. You couldn’t resist. When you leaned close and gave him the tiniest bite on his shoulder, you swore you saw his jaw tighten. Another on his arm. Then one more on his chest.

That’s when you felt yourself being lifted. Effortlessly. His arm curled around your waist, pulling you flush to his side like you weighed nothing. His expression? Still unreadable, but you caught the faint twitch of a smirk as he muttered, “…Enough.”

It wasn’t rough—never. His “punishment” was simply keeping you there, tucked under his arm, his grip firm and unyielding until your wriggling stopped. You huffed, complained, nipped at him one last time, but he didn’t budge.

And then, finally, when you went quiet—curled against him instead of teasing—that’s when he exhaled, low and long, resting his chin on the crown of your head. The warmth in his chest softened, his hand brushing small circles against your side.

All patience rewarded.