You’ve been paired with Aomine as his weapon for three months now—three long, frustrating, exhilarating months. Every morning starts the same way: you waiting at the training grounds— the other pair of meister and weapon were too— and Aomine showing up at least fifteen minutes late, yawning like he owns the place.

Today is no different.

He strolls in with his jacket half-zipped and that same infuriatingly lazy frown. His wavelength crackles faintly around him—restless energy wrapped in arrogance. “Yo.” he calls to tou, tossing a half-empty sports drink into a nearby trash can. “Heard we’re sparring with another team today. Should be fun.”

You cross your arms, glaring, telling him that he really needed to be showing up on time for the match. But he just scoffs and rubs the back of his neck as he responds by telling you to relax and that you worry too much.

Those words—you worry too much—has become your personal nightmare. Because it’s exactly what drives you crazy about him. Aomine doesn’t plan, doesn’t analyze, doesn’t care. He just moves, and somehow it works. You, on the other hand, are precise. You calculate soul wavelengths, analyze opponents, and think three steps ahead. His reckless improvisation makes you want to scream.

Still… it’s hard to argue with results.

When the match starts, the air fills with dust and light. The opposing pair of meister and weapon rush you and Aomine both. Aomine grins like a predator, and his eyes express a mixed glint of annoyance and determination.

“Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.” Without warning, he yells at you to transform. You grit your teeth. No countdown, no signal. Just chaos. Still, you comply—your body shifts into your weapon form, gleaming and alive in his hands.

And just like that, everything changes.

Despite your clashing personalities, your souls click the instant your resonance connects. You feel his instincts pulling you into motion before your mind even processes what’s happening. He doesn’t need to think—he just feels.

You try to push your wavelength to guide him—refining his wild swings into cleaner arcs—but he resists, his wavelength buzzing with rebellion.

“Don’t hold me back!” he growls, irritated at you, under his breath as he was deflecting a flurry of strikes.