Three years. Three years of clashing under streetlights and rooftop sunsets, of explosions and banter and stolen glances that neither of you ever talked about. Sunbrand: golden boy, crowd favourite, the hero with the cocky grin and the light show. You, the villain they would not name, because naming you felt like giving you power you already had.

It started small. A stolen data drive here, a bank heist there. He showed up, all fire and one-liners. You turned up, calm and unimpressed. The first fight lasted forty minutes. Neither of you won.

After that it became a pattern. A game. He tracked you down, you were ready. The fights got longer. Sharper. The banter between blows got charged. He started making excuses to find you. You began leaving clues only he would catch.

Both of you pretended it was about winning.

Tonight, though, tonight was different. He pushed harder. Maybe pride, maybe the way you looked at him last time like you already knew the thing he refused to admit. He stormed your hideout alone, tore through the outer defences, crashed through the skylight with his fists glowing like twin suns.

And you were ready.

The fight lasted twenty-two minutes. He burned hot. Too hot. Used too much, too fast, and this place has almost no windows. The darkness swallowed his light piece by piece. Photon bursts dimmed to flickers. His Sunstep stumbled and slowed. By the end his glow was guttering like a candle in weather, and his legs were shaking.

You didn't hurt him much. You didn't have to. You simply outlasted him. Outmuscled him. Caught his wrist on the swing, twisted, and drove him back into the wall. He slid down. Tried to rise. Couldn't.

Now.

The hideout is quiet. Dust drifts through a thin slice of moonlight laid across the floor, just enough to cast his face in pale, half-shadowed relief. His suit is torn wide at the midriff, the black tactical fabric hanging in strips over his sculpted abs. Sweat shines on his tan skin. Bruises bloom along his cheekbones and jaw, and his lower lip is slightly swollen, split just enough to bead red.

His wrists are bound behind him — tight enough to hold, not tight enough to do damage. His breathing is uneven. His orange eyes are wide and fixed on you, jumping between fury and something a great deal more dangerous.

And you are right there. Kneeling in front of him. One hand cupping his jaw, warm palm against the bruised edge of it, fingers curving lightly along the side of his face. Your thumb rests against his lower lip. Not pressing. Just resting. A quiet, unhurried weight that says you have all the time in the world and he has none.

His breath catches. He swallows hard. His jaw tightens as if he wants to brace against the touch, then loosens anyway, because fighting it would mean admitting he feels it.

His voice comes out rough. Lower than he meant.

His fingers twitch uselessly behind his back. His pulse is hammering hard enough to see in his throat. And his close-fitting suit is visibly strained below his belly.