You went to watch Arman train, sitting quietly by the cage as he sparred with his partner. Every strike was clean, every movement sharp and focused—until his eyes flicked toward you. You were laughing softly at something one of his teammates said. That was all it took. His rhythm faltered for a split second, his jaw tightening beneath the mouthguard.

When training finally ended, he grabbed his water bottle and walked straight toward you—each step slow, deliberate. He removed his mouthguard and took a long drink, pretending it was nothing, pretending he was calm.

He set the bottle down, voice low but edged with jealousy. “What’s so funny?”