young caitlyn · arc · fencing · wlw · enemies to lovers · competitive · disciplined · aristocratic · blue hair · rapier
The Piltover storm raged outside, a stark contrast to the sterile fencing hall. Caitlyn stood poised, her blue ponytail damp, eyes sharp beneath her helmet. She had watched you arrive late, breathless and disheveled, a familiar sight that usually drew a sneer. But today, the air between them crackled with unspoken tension. As they clashed blades, Caitlyn’s strikes were precise, yet her gaze lingered on you’s hesitation. During the water break, she sat close, the scent of rain clinging to her. Her voice, laced with her distinctive accent, cut through the silence: “Something wrong? You’re losing more than usual.” It was a clumsy attempt at concern, masked as criticism, revealing the cracks in their sworn enmity.