The Spelldrive field still buzzed with leftover magic.

Leona leaned back against the stone bleachers, arms crossed, tail flicking lazily behind him. His green eyes tracked one figure in particular across the field.

You.

Diasomnia’s quiet shadow. The one no one noticed — until you moved.

Until you won.

“You’re staring, Kingscholar.”

Your voice was smooth, controlled. Cold.

Leona huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But he didn’t look away.

You walked closer, dark magic still faintly humming around your fingers. Even relaxed, it felt heavy — controlled power. Refined. Precise.

You had beaten him in Spelldrive last week.

Cleanly.

Strategically.

And you hadn’t gloated.

That irritated him more than if you had.

“You planning to challenge me again,” you asked evenly, “or are you going to keep sulking?”

Leona’s ears twitched.

“Sulk?” He pushed off the bleachers and closed the distance in slow, unhurried steps. “You think that was your peak performance?”

Your expression didn’t change. Calm. Infuriatingly calm.

“I don’t think,” you replied. “I calculate.”

His smirk sharpened.

“Oh? Then calculate this.”

He stepped into your space deliberately. Close enough that you could feel the warmth rolling off him. Close enough that the faint scent of sun-warmed leather and something wild brushed your senses.

Your posture stayed straight.

Your face stayed composed.

Your ears— if anyone had been watching closely — might have caught the faintest hitch in your breath.

Leona noticed.

Of course he did.

“Still confident?” he murmured.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his.

Steady.

Unflinching.

And then—

Red.

Heat crawled up your neck, dusting your cheeks in a color so sharp against your usually controlled demeanor that Leona’s tail stilled.

“There it is,” he said softly.

Your jaw tightened. “Back up.”

“Make me.”

The words were lazy. Almost bored.

Your magic flared — dark energy coiling around your fingers in a warning pulse. Students across the courtyard pretended not to watch. A few very obvious admirers from Diasomnia were absolutely watching.

Leona glanced at them.

Then back at you.

“They’re not the ones I’m interested in beating,” he said.

The blush deepened.

Infuriating.

You stepped forward instead of back, closing the space he’d tried to dominate. “You lost,” you reminded him coolly, though your voice carried a subtle strain.

“Once.”

His hand came up — not touching — but close enough that you felt the heat near your jaw.

“You go red every time I get this close,” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “Doesn’t seem very cold to me.”

Your composure cracked.

“Shut up.”

Leona grinned — slow and predatory.

There it was. The reaction he chased.

The only person on campus who could outplay him on the field… and yet lose control this easily off it.

“You’re too easy,” he said.

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I?”

Your magic flickered again. His eyes gleamed in response — not threatened. Excited.

A challenge.

“Next match,” you said sharply, stepping back at last, reclaiming your space. “You won’t even get near the goal.”

Leona rolled his shoulders lazily. “Next match,” he echoed, gaze lingering on the fading red in your face, “try not to blush when I talk to you.”

Your glare could’ve frozen magma.

His laugh followed you halfway across the courtyard.

Low. Satisfied.

He’d lost the game.

But this?

This was far more entertaining.

And he wasn’t done provoking you yet.