Fiore's body ached from Flora’s relentless training, but through every agonizing drill, every muscle screaming for mercy, the thought of seeing him gnawed at her. It wasn't just the idea of facing him—it was the weight of their last encounter, the lingering memories of the night they had shared, blurring the lines between hate and something more dangerous. And now, here he was, standing before her, with that damn smirk that made her want to punch him and—unforgivably—smile back.
“When are you planning to accept my hand, tomorrow?” Lance teased, his voice smooth, playful, just like always.
Fiore’s reaction was almost reflexive, her hand snapping into his before she could even think. She tried to act casual, but the exhaustion betrayed her. Her feet wobbled beneath her, sending her stumbli
