The flying arrow almost takes off her head. 

To be more precise, it would’ve lodged itself in her temple, but those are technicalities. 

Shuhua leaps backward before any of the unfortunate aforementioned events could happen. 

This is child’s play for her, but she keeps her eyes trained on the two strigoi, still having the mind to berate Miyeon. Yelling with none of the former bite to it. 

“Watch where you’re shooting!” 

“Sorry!” Miyeon pipes up cheerfully, somewhere far behind her, maybe in a bush. Relatively safe from danger.  

Strigoi are mostly harmless until provoked. Shuhua has always thought they would’ve made excellent pets, imagine a bald male vampire hag waiting on her beck and call. 

It’s a shame strigoi are blood drinkers who have to gorge themselves fat on blood every now and then. They also have an acquired taste for reapers, they would salivate at the imagery of draining her dry. 

Her idea wouldn’t work on her end either. Considering that she has a disposition to chop every single monster she encounters into unrecognizable pieces. 

Just reaper things. 

Shuhua would’ve gone on ruminating over the sad truth: strigoi make terrible pets. Except she had to be interrupted, seeing movement. 

She sidesteps easily. 

Swinging to the side, her blade meets no resistance. She ignores the pained shriek in her ear. There is nothing quite like this and she won’t pretend to deny it. Absolutely nothing can compare to the rush in her veins. 

Shuhua smirks. One down, one more to go. 

She turns on her heel. Prepared to finish off the last one. 

Mild disappointment creeps into her heart. Ah. She’s been beaten to it. 

An arrow protrudes from the strigoi’s forehead. It stumbles one foot towards her, arms hanging dumbly at its sides. Mouth wide open. Almost cartoonishly, knees hitting the floor first, it slumps to the ground. 

Headfirst. 

“Look at you showing off,” says Shuhua. 

Miyeon walks up from wherever she was. From a bush probably. “I can’t be outdone by you, can I?” 

“Well said. Would you like a cookie to go with my sincere congratulations?” Shuhua prods the strigoi with her foot. Moves away when she’s satisfied with its limpness. 

She keeps on her frown though. 

“You’re just miffed I killed more strigoi than you tonight.” 

The urge to roll her eyes to the back of her head must be stomped out—Shuhua repeats this line over and over in head. If she wants to get along with Miyeon, she has to accept her as she is. 

“The count is twelve to eight, try to keep up, will you?” Blast that cheeky provocation. Miyeon just had to add fuel to the fire. The simmering, growing fire, soon to be an uncontrollable blaze. 

“Oh, I will,” Shuhua growls.       

----

It has been awhile, a long, long while since they’ve done this together. Without actively trying to tick each other off for reasons meant to sting and hurt.  

It has to be her fiercely competitive streak which makes her text Miyeon after she returns home. 

Want to do that again tomorrow? Same time?

Miyeon’s response comes instantaneously. 

Sure. 

She tries not to read too much into the speed of the reply.  

----

Head looking up every minute or so from her phone, Miyeon is there. From her spot behind a wayward bench, Shuhua crouches. She peeks up. Hesitantly. 

Seeing Miyeon’s head turn in her direction, she drops back down. Heart hammering, ready to leap out of its cage.  

What is she doing. 

She’s not here to play hide and seek. Far from it. 

The inner workings of her mind were paralyzed when she saw Miyeon already at the park, waiting. 

Twenty minutes early. 

And instead of walking up to her like a normal functioning reaper, Shuhua had reflexively made herself scarce. Hiding in a fit. Because what kind of a message would it send if Miyeon knew she showed up early too? 

Mentally debating, she recognizes she has two options. 

1. Walk out loud and proud like she didn’t just squat for an indeterminate amount of time behind a bench. Proceed to initiate snarky banter to conceal her mortification. 

2. Squat indefinitely. Her glutes will thank her more than ever.

Option number one’s success rate is 55%, give or take. Approximately. If Miyeon had somehow acquired a loose screw in her head. Rickety and dangling. Shuhua could also resort to telling a chicken joke in hopes of shocking Miyeon to the point of no return. 

As for option number two, it is quite attractive though exhausting for her to pull it off correctly, but futility is a social construct—

“What are you doing?” 

Throbbing, splitting pain. Her hand shoots to the back of her head, feeling her eyes bulge from self-inflicted torture. 

This is what she gets for panicking out of silliness. 

She has to act cool and casual. She did not bump her head while turning because she was caught. Nope. It did not happen. If she convinces herself it was a figment of her imagination, Miyeon has a higher chance of believing whatever lie she is about to spin. 

Shuhua stands, making sure to lean against the bench. 

Relaxed, loosening every fibre of her body. Confidence is the key. “I’m examining the impressive craftsmanship of this bench, what else does it look like I’m doing?” 

“If you say so. But it looked like you were deep in thought inspecting the dried gum underneath.” Miyeon definitely isn’t buying her alibi, judging by the mischievous grin. That is cut off by a loud yawn. 

Miyeon exhales deeply again, blinking; though to Shuhua, her eyes nevertheless hold that same clarity and energy from before. “Maybe I should leave you to it and I’ll get a headstart on the monsters.” 

Shuhua pushes off the bench and reminds herself she absolutely did not botch option number one. “You’re not winning tonight.”

“Am I?” Questioning. Light and airy—teasing, throwing Shuhua a bone—there’s a tantalizing challenge dripping freely. 

And she’ll take it by the reins. 

AN: Competitive dorks, let’s go. The fluff meter has been maxed out thanks to fromis 9’s starry night, just in time before I keel over from the joy I derive from stats and regression lines.