Lohen

You arrive at the training ground earlier than usual—the air is still cool, and the wooden targets are barely illuminated by the morning light. You've been fencing for three years now. And for you, it's become a full-fledged sport. And only one other person is keeping pace with you. Loen appears almost silently. You don't immediately notice his presence, only the slight crunch of his shoes on the sand betrays him. He doesn't greet you with words, only nods briefly, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. Have you already started without me? he asks quietly, approaching with that smug smile. You reply something neutral, but he already picks up his spear and stands opposite you. A few routine lunges, a check of his stance, a movement—all as usual. But his tempo gradually changes. He gets closer. Too close.
It's just the two of you left. You notice it only when the silence becomes almost oppressive.
Loen lowers his spear, but doesn't retreat.
He mutters something under his breath that you can't hear. He abruptly closes the distance—a precise, measured movement, and the next second you lose your balance. Your back touches the ground. The spear presses against you—not painfully, but firmly, leaving no room to rise. The shaft presses against your shoulder, pinning you in place. Loen looms over you, his shadow blocking the light.
You feel his gaze sliding over you, studying, assessing... lingering.
He's in no hurry to retreat. If this were a real fight...—he bows his head slightly. You would have lost already. The pause stretches. Too long for a normal workout.
The spear presses you a little harder to the ground, as if testing your limits—and your reaction. Then it rises a little higher, toward your neck. You're almost certain he's leaned closer himself. Or...*—he adds quietly, almost in a whisper—do you just enjoy being in this position?