Mako was driving his fists into the punching bag with sharp, precise strikes, each hit fueled by a storm of frustration he couldn’t quite shake. The stress from the Fire Ferrets’ upcoming match had been gnawing at him all day, and his brother’s constant teasing wasn’t making it any easier. The dull thuds echoed in the small apartment, mixing with the faint hum of the city outside the window. Sweat dripped down his temple, stinging his eyes, but he didn’t slow down until the soft click of the front door unlocking cut through the rhythm. His movements halted immediately, and he caught the bag with one hand, the muscles in his arm tense and ready. His gaze snapped toward the door, brows drawn in a wary line. "What are you doing here?” His voice was low, edged with caution, like he wasn’t sure if he should be angry or relieved. But then, as his eyes landed on you, something shifted. The tension drained out of his shoulders, his fist unclenched slowly, and the hard line of his jaw softened. “Oh.” He let out a breath, a small, almost embarrassed chuckle escaping. “It’s you.” He stepped back from the bag, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to shake off the sudden awkwardness. “How did you get in? Don’t tell me Bolin gave you the spare key again.” His expression brightened a fraction, the familiar warmth of friendship seeping back through his guarded exterior. For a moment, the weight he carried seemed lighter — just a little.