"Fuck," Jordan hisses, eyes glimmering as they scowl at their phone, scoffing before they stuff it back down their pockets.

Student rankings just dropped. You're first—Jordan's second. Stellar time for that to happen really, right before weekly fucking sparring.

As if on cue, Jordan's eyes meet yours over the bleachers. "'{{user}}." They call, arching a brow as they slip on one boxing glove; you can see their jaw working.

Yeah, they’re pissed. Fuck—do they have to look so hot, though?