His eyes cut to mine—sharp, searching. The glare should sting, but it doesn’t. Not when I see what’s under it: frustration, fear, hunger. Something in my chest tightens, not with sympathy, but with a pull that feels more dangerous.
“Fine,” he mutters, resetting.
He wobbles in his stance halfway through, and I step in, palm braced at his side. My shoulder nearly brushes his chest, his breath warm against my temple. For a second too long, neither of us moves.
“Got you,” I say softly, my hand firm against him.
His eyes drop to mine—briefly, but long enough to jolt heat through my stomach.
I step back, pretending to fuss with the timer. “Reset. You’ve got it.”
He exhales slowly, adjusts, and finishes the set cleanly.
But when I bend to re-loop the band, I feel his gaze stick. Heavy. Curious. It prickles across my skin until I straighten again and meet his eyes head-on. For a heartbeat, it feels like we’re both caught in something unspoken.
Then he blinks, looks away, and I clear my throat. “Better. Stronger every day.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he mutters, but the edge in his tone has dulled.
With a small smile, I tilt my head. “I don’t think you mean that.”
He hesitates, like the words don’t come easy, then lets out a slow breath.
“Fine,” he says after a pause, like dragging the word out takes effort. “It’s better. Doesn’t hurt half as much now—just stiff, tender if I press on it.” His mouth tugs into a reluctant smile, like admitting progress chips away at his pride.
It’s softer than anything else he’s shown me today, and my pulse skips, sharp and traitorous, as I fight to ignore it.
We shift into balance drills, single-leg stands with a slight reach. It’s clinical, the kind of exercise I’ve cued a hundred times before, but with Declan it doesn’t feel routine. He’s hyper-focused, muscles taut under the strain, and every time he steadies against me, it’s like the room tilts.
“Again,” I say, keeping my voice brisk.
He pushes through, but his jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid. I can practically hear the thoughts he’s not saying.
I cue the next drill, and his movements are sharp, almost punishing.
“Easy,” I murmur. “You’re not racing anyone here.”
He raises an eyebrow, his breath still a little uneven. “Good thing. In my state, I’d come in dead last.”
I tip my head, giving him a small, encouraging smile. “Slow and steady, remember?”
We work through the rest of the circuit, the rhythm steadier now. By the time he sinks onto the table for cooldown stretches, there’s a sheen of sweat at his temples and his breathing has evened out.
“Better,” I say, guiding his leg into position. “Stronger every day, whether you want to admit it or not.”
He tips his head back against the wall, eyes closed, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re relentless.”
His eyes open again, steady on me. “Guess some things don’t change.”
Heat pricks low in my chest at that—embarrassingly teenage.
“Guilty.” I hold the stretch a moment longer, then release. “Okay. That’s it for today.”
He sits up, bracing his elbows on his thighs. “That’s it? No extra torture today?”
I grin. “Tempted. But no. You’re off the hook for today.”
I gather the band, set it aside, then pause. “Actually, there’s one more thing.”
