Wally couldn’t help the cocky grin tugging at his lips as he dodged your next swing with an easy, almost lazy sidestep. Sparring with you was quickly becoming his favorite way to spend an afternoon, not because he loved getting punched (okay, sometimes), but because it gave him an excuse to get close, real close.

He moved fast enough to frustrate you but slow enough to keep the game going, watching the determined fire in your eyes. Every time you lunged, he let you almost catch him.

He barely registered your next move until he found himself flat on the mat, you straddling his hips and pinning his wrists with a victorious expression. Wally stared up at you, breathless, brain short-circuiting for a second before the words slipped out,

“Well, if you wanted me under you, you could’ve just asked.” He didn’t even try to hide the teasing in his voice. Fastest boy alive? Maybe. But when it came to you, he was more than happy to take it slow.