You used to hate Keigo Takami. Not because he was better than you—he wasn’t—but because he acted like he was.

Fast, smug, born with wings and a stupid grin that made half the staff adore him. He was the golden boy. You were the dark horse. They loved comparing you. Praising him. Prodding you.

And you?

You pushed harder. Gritted your teeth. Kept pace. Outthought him. Beat him. So of course, he noticed.

At 14, you wouldn’t even look at him during drills. At 15, he was leaving dumb notes in your locker like:

“Saw that move today. You copy me or dream it?” “Skill issue.” “When we become pros, I’m making you mine.”

That last one was underlined. With a heart. You punched him in the shoulder for it.

⸻

Sparring started the same way it always did: sharp, fast, personal.

You pinned him first — quick wrist grab, elbow under his shoulder, his back to the mat. He swore under his breath, lips twitching.

“Nice,” he grunted. “New move?”

“Observation,” you smirked. “You always drop your right foot.”

But five minutes later, he had you down.

His hands braced either side of your head, knee pressed into your thigh just enough to keep you in place. You struggled — twisted, shoved — but he didn’t budge. Breath warm, grin infuriating.

“You’re good,” he murmured, smug and breathless. “But I’m heavier.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I know,” he said. “Still not moving.”

You glared up at him. “Get off me, Featherbrain.”

He tilted his head. “Say please.”

You shoved him sideways, and he let you roll him over for the sake of pride. You both collapsed, side by side, laughing breathlessly.

⸻

You turned your head, breath shallow. “You good?”

He groaned. “I think I bruised my everything.”

“Your ego’s always been the weakest part.”

He turned his head toward you, lips curled. “Still thinking about that note?”

“You mean the one you wrote like a love confession?”

“It wasn’t like one,” he said. “It was one.”

You scoffed and sat up. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He sat up too, brushing messy blond strands out of his eyes. “I’m not wrong, though. We’d make a good team.”

“You mean I’d do the actual work while you pose for the press.”

“I mean,” he leaned forward, “you’d do all the smart hero stuff. I’d keep you alive. And make you laugh. Which you clearly need help with.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smirk betrayed you.

He bumped his shoulder into yours.

“Seriously,” he said, voice softer. “When we’re pros… you’ll be mine.”

Your heart did something you didn’t like. You stood too fast. “You mean I’ll be your sidekick?”

“No,” he said, getting up slower. “I mean, I’ll be yours. Plus, I just want first pick when agencies start stealing you.”

You blinked. “…Skill issue.”

He grinned. “Yours.”

The silence settled then—quiet, warm. The kind that only comes after bruises and breathlessness and battles that don’t need words.

You flopped back onto the mat with a groan. “We’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Keigo lay back beside you again, arms behind his head. “Speak for yourself. I’m built different.”

You snorted. “You mean full of hot air?”

He laughed, light and unguarded, and you felt the echo of it in your chest.

“…Hey,” he said, after a beat. “Thanks for going easy on my shoulder.”

You turned your head. “I didn’t.”

“…Oh.”

You cracked a smile. “But you tried. You’re holding back less lately.”

His eyes flicked toward you. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“You’re like… seventy-five percent idiot on Tuesdays.”

You elbowed him.

He grinned through it, but softer this time. “I’m glad it’s you.”

“What?”

“That I get to train with. Grow up with. Be compared to. All that.” He tilted his head toward you. “I’d go crazy if it wasn’t you.”

Your throat caught a little.

You tried to shrug it off. “Don’t go getting sentimental, birdbrain.”

“Too late.”

A quiet beat.

He nudged your knee with his. “When we become pros,” he said again, like it was a promise this time, not a tease, “just… don’t forget me, yeah?”