AN: Another May/Drew short, though this one is kind of proof that not all the oneshots in this collection are going to be hakuna matata.

She watches him.

He's training with his roserade, working on new appeals for the upcoming contest. The air around him sparkles with remnants of the different combinations already performed, colliding with the sunlight in the air, glowing within the trees the soft breeze guides them into and amongst the training ground where they land.

Even with how they're supposed to clash like fire and water on a coordinating stage, he had invited her to watch his new appeals and offer advice or comments.

Because though they're rivals, they're friends in some way, too.

But, it's ironic. Because she's not watching his appeals. She's watching him, like she's been watching him the past few contests. And, as she watches him, the rest of the park seems to melt away, leaving only her, him, and the little distance between them.

She looks at his face, the determination that darkens the emerald hues in his eyes as he focuses on his roserade. He's lean, his clothes hugging his body, fitting and moving with him perfectly, with every gesture for an attack, and he's as vivid as how he always looks when he's on the actual stage, performing in front of hundreds. She looks at his hair, chartreuse in the light, shining, his bangs moving to hang in front of his eyes. He breathes through his mouth, sweat building along his neck from the outside heat, and the corners of his lips twitching upward in the form of a smirk. His voice is smooth when he calls orders to his roserade, the sparkles of the past combinations clinging to his clothes.

And she wonders.

She wonders what his eyes would look like, if they were dark like that and focused on her like they're focused on the task at hand. She wonders how his body would shape against hers, his arms around her. She wonders what his hair would feel like, if it's really as soft as it looks. She wonders if those small bouts of sweat on his neck is what makes his skin glisten, or if his breath is hot as he exhales through his mouth, or if that smirk could be as hungry as it is arrogant, or if his voice is that smooth on a regular basis.

And, for a second, she imagines herself gazing into his eyes, running her fingers through his hair, pushing her mouth to his, tasting his sweat and feeling his breath and smelling his scent and hearing him call out her name beneath her touch. She imagines him looking at her, with that dark gaze, soft hair, glistening skin, hot breath, hungry smirk, and smooth voice – everything that's him, everything that can tear away that rich teenager facade, the teenager everyone else knows, and make him look like an outlaw, the dragon only she can see.

She imagines him looking at her like that, and she imagines him wanting her just like she wants him.

"May?"

She blinks, and, suddenly, the park exists again. She looks up and meets his eyes, as he stands over her, a concerned expression on his face.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "It looks like you dozed off for a second..."

She swallows, before she forgets how to breathe. Or speak. "I'm okay," she says, she lies.

"Oh. Well, what'd you think of the appeal? You can tell me the truth, you know."

She wants to tell him what she really thinks, what she really wants, but...

"It was good," she says.

"Just good?" He chuckles, with his usual cockiness that, for once, only reminds her of that rugged outlaw, that beautiful dragon. "I'll see what you really think at the contest tomorrow, then."

And he leaves, and she's all alone in the park, and she falls back against the bench, and she tries not to cry, tries to convince herself that these feelings can be justified, and requited.

But she knows that what she wants, she's not supposed to have.

Because though they're friends in some way, they're rivals, too.