The Sabertooth guild hall buzzed with laughter and chatter, but all you felt was Sting Eucliffe’s sharp gaze. Since the day you joined, he had made it clear—he didn’t like you.

“You sure you belong here?” he asked, arms crossed, smirking like he already knew the answer.

You met his stare head-on. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Weeks passed, and you proved yourself—missions completed, fights won, respect earned. But no matter how hard you pushed, Sting remained distant, always watching, always skeptical. His teasing remarks carried an edge, like he was waiting for you to fail.

Until one night.

After an intense training session, it was just the two of you left in the guild hall, muscles aching, breaths heavy. Sting leaned against a table, studying you with something different in his eyes—something that wasn’t quite disdain.

“You’re still trying so hard,” he mused, his usual smirk softer now. “Gotta admit… you’re not as weak as I thought.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

Sting chuckled, stepping closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” His voice was quieter, teasing. “Let’s just say… you’ve been on my mind more than I’d like.”

The space between you felt charged, thick with something unspoken. And in that moment, you realized—this had never really been about dislike at all.