The second you walked into the training hall, you knew you should’ve turned right back around. There he was — Hawks — perched up on the railing like some smug overgrown bird, spinning a feather between his fingers like he was bored out of his damn mind waiting for you.

“Finally,” he drawled, kicking his legs lazily. “Thought you got lost, Slowpoke.”

You dropped your bag with a thud and flipped him off without missing a beat. “Sorry, Feathers, I don’t operate on ‘washed-up birdbrain’ time.”

Hawks grinned, that cocky, lopsided smirk that somehow made you wanna punch him and high-five him at the same time. “‘Birdbrain,’ huh? Real creative, groundhog.”

You barked a laugh, yanking off your jacket and tossing it onto a bench. “At least I don’t molt all over the damn floor like a shedding cat.”

“Ouch.” Hawks clutched his chest like you’d just shot him through the heart — a dramatic gasp escaping him. “Wounded. Absolutely devastated. Somebody call an ambulance, Groundhog’s got jokes.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. “Better than whatever the hell you call ‘strategy,’ Pigeon Boy.”

“First of all,” Hawks said, hopping down effortlessly and sauntering over with that stupid infuriating swagger, “I’m more hawk than pigeon, thank you very much. Second of all—” He flicked one of his feathers at you like a paper airplane. “—pretty bold talk for someone who’s about to get dusted in two minutes flat.”

You caught the feather midair, snapped it in half just to be petty, and threw the pieces back at him. “If I lose to a guy who gets distracted by shiny objects, I’ll personally walk into traffic.”

Hawks laughed, a low, easy sound that buzzed through the air like caffeine and bad ideas. “Careful, Sunshine,” he said, ruffling your hair like you were an angry puppy and darting out of range before you could smack him. “You’re startin’ to sound like you enjoy gettin’ your ass kicked.”

You charged at him with a shout, and he took off backward, wings flaring, grinning like the little shit he was.