Instead, I push the door open.
Sound hits first. The thud of flesh meeting flesh, rhythmic and brutal. The sharp exhale of air forced from lungs on impact. The slide of bare feet on rubber mats.
Then smell. Salt and leather, the particular musk of men working hard, sweat mixing with metal that might be blood or might just be exertion pushed to its limit.
Then sight.
Alexei and Zakhar on the sparring mat, exchanging blows with the practiced efficiency of men who've been fighting together for decades.
Both shirtless. Both wearing only boxeur shorts that sit low on their hips, revealing more skin than I'm prepared to see this early in the morning.
They're magnificent.
Alexei moves like violence set to music, all kinetic energy and fluid motion, tattoos flowing across his torso like a map of survival written in ink. His abs are cut deep, each muscle defined with the precision of someone who's spent years honing his body into a weapon. Light catches sweat on his skin, turns him into something almost unreal. A fighter who looks like art. Dangerous and beautiful in equal measure.
Zakhar is power sculpted in motion. Broader, more solid, his chest dusted with dark hair that trails down his stomach in a line that draws the eye lower whether I want it to or not. His muscles bunch and release with each movement, controlled force that doesn't waste a single ounce of energy. Every strike is calculated. Every block precise.
My mouth goes dry. My pulse accelerates, thundering in my ears loud enough to drown out the sounds of their sparring.
I should look away. Should announce my presence, make some cutting remark, do anything except stand here staring like I've never seen a man's body before.
But I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except watch the way they move together, knowing each other's rhythms, anticipating each strike before it lands, moving in perfect synchronization born from years of fighting side by side.
It's mesmerizing.
Zakhar's gaze snaps to me.
For half a second, our eyes lock across the distance, and I see recognition flare in his expression. Heat. Raw and unguarded before discipline slams back down like a door closing.
He moves. Fast. Steps directly in front of Alexei, blocking him from my view with his body.
The gesture is protective. Suspicious. Deliberate.
Like he's trying to hide his twin from me.
Alexei turns, confusion flickering across his face when he realizes Zakhar has stopped mid-spar. Then understanding dawns. He follows his brother's gaze to where I'm standing frozen in the doorway.
His expression shifts to wary.
He grabs his shirt from the bench beside the mat, pulls it on with movements that should be casual but feel rushed. Too deliberate.
Not fast enough.
In the mirror behind them, I catch a glimpse of a small device attached to Alexei's upper arm, barely visible beneath the edge of his shirt sleeve. Medical. Necessary.
An insulin pump.
Alexei is diabetic.
The knowledge lands with unexpected weight. The awareness that his body requires constant vigilance, that without technology and discipline, it would kill him.
They're nervous. Both of them.
Zakhar's stillness has gone rigid, every muscle locked like he's bracing for impact. Alexei's usual grin is strained, not quite reaching his eyes. They're wondering if I saw. Wondering what I'll do with the information.
I could use this. File it away as leverage, as ammunition for whatever battles lie ahead.
In the world they inhabit, weakness is currency. And chronic illness even more so.
