She taps the outside of my elbow, guiding it one inch. It's such a small correction, but the way she asked first makes my insides unknot a little.
For a while, I forget everything else.
The instructor runs us through the routine, calling it early with a satisfied nod.
As I wipe sweat from my neck, Chase approaches like he always does.
Jess materializes at my elbow, eyes bouncing between me and Chase. "We're not needed here. Text me if you need rescued from... instruction."
Noah's grin is pure trouble. "Behave," he whispers, waggling his brows at Chase.
"Go shower," I hiss, mortified and amused.
"I plan to," Jess chirps, already backing away.
Jonah appears as if conjured, one warm palm finding the back of Noah's neck. He nods at me, neutral, before whisking his omega away.
"Leg press today?" Chase asks. "Or are you still pretending it doesn't exist?"
"I am not pretending. I am selectively prioritizing."
He laughs and motions me over. "Come on. I'll show you."
I fumble with the seat adjustment, laughing at myself. Chase teases me gently, talking me through it.
"That was tragic."
"Rude," I shoot back, smiling.
He nudges the pin into a lower plate. "We're not summoning EMTs today. Knees at ninety, feet shoulder-width, toes slightly out. Think 'push the floor away,' not 'launch myself to Mars.'"
"Bossy," I mutter.
"Effective," he counters, crouching beside the sled to check my alignment. His palm brackets under my kneecap, thumb a warm line as he shifts me a tiny degree. "There. Track over the second toe. Don't let the joint cave."
I exhale on the press. "Oh. That's... doable."
"Look at you. Joining the leg-havers."
"Don't get cocky," I warn.
He grins, the dominant bite in his scent tightening—something like pepper and sun-warmed resin, rain after heat. It threads into my lungs in a way that doesn't set off alarms. Something low and sleepy inside me stretches once, like a cat in a patch of sunlight.
Dangerous, my brain whispers.This is how it starts.
"Keep your back glued," he says, tapping the pad behind my shoulders. His fingers skim the slope of my traps. "No arch."
"I'm trying. I can't tell if this hurts or if I'm just offended."
"Both. Two more."
I do them without bargaining. He leans in to hook a finger under the handle when I'm done, and for a second his chest is close enough that the heat from him spills across my skin. It should feel like pressure. It feels like weight I could put my spine on if I wanted to rest for a minute.
Nope. Absolutely not.
"Water," he orders. "Your heroic quads demand a tip."
"Do I tip in electrolytes?"
