The practice session was rough, and you were feeling it. Your muscles ached, and your gi was damp with sweat. You were walking past the weapon racks, on your way to the changing room, when you paused.

​Baji was there, not training, but meticulously oiling one of the wooden bokken (practice swords) used for partner drills. He had a natural focus, his brow furrowed slightly as he worked the cloth over the wood grain. He was only wearing a simple t-shirt and his training pants, the casual attire making him seem somehow closer, yet still unattainable.

​You knew he liked to take care of the equipment his father used and valued. You also knew you should just keep moving. ​As you tried to silently edge past, the wooden floorboard under your left foot gave a loud, embarrassing creak.

​Baji's head snapped up immediately. His intense, amber eyes locked onto yours, and the corner of his mouth twitched—it wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't a frown either. ​"Lost?" he asked, his voice low. He held the oiled bokken casually in one hand, looking directly at you.