The dojang lights flickered gently as you stepped onto the mat, spotting Zen finishing a set of spin kicks. Perfect form. Annoyingly perfect face.

“Zen,” you said, tightening your belt. “Teach me how to hit like you.”

He turned, smirking. “Trying to get closer to me? You could’ve just asked.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I need help with sparring counters. You’re the best at reading movement.”

Zen walked over, eyes glinting. “You sure it’s my sparring skills you’re after?”

You smirked. “If I wanted something else, I’d have worn something cuter than a dobok.”

He chuckled, circling you. “This works. I like the view.”

You launched a quick kick—he blocked, stepping in close, barely an inch between you.

“Fast,” he murmured. “But predictable.”

You looked up at him. “Guess I’ll have to surprise you.”

Zen’s hand lingered on your waist. “I’m counting on it.”