Rangi shrugs off his formal shirt, revealing a fitted black tank that shows off the tattoos adorning his arms and shoulders. Each mark tells a story—of battles fought, honours earned, traditions upheld. I force my gaze away, focusing on wrapping my hands properly.
We circle each other on the training mats, falling into the familiar patterns we perfected during deployment. He’s always fought with a mix of traditional forms and modern combat training, making him unpredictable, dangerous.
He strikes first, testing my defences. I block, counter, slip away. The rhythm of combat feels more natural than the political manoeuvring I’ve done today. Here, there’s no need for careful words or diplomatic distance. Here, we speak in the language of movement and muscle.
“You’ve been practicing,” he notes as I dodge his sweep.
“Some of us can’t afford to get rusty.”
His laugh is dark and rich. “Is that what you think?” He comes at me faster, harder. “That I’ve gone soft?”
I meet him halfway, blocking his strike and attempting to use his momentum against him. But he’s ready—twisting into my counter, knocking me off balance—and suddenly we’re grappling. His skin is hot where it brushes mine, our breath coming fast and uneven as we shift and strain.
“Not soft,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Just slow.”
His eyes flash. In one smooth move, he hooks my ankle and I go down hard, twisting at the last second to drag him with me. We hit the mats with a thud, and Rangi uses our momentum to rollus until he’s on top. We struggle for dominance, neither willing to yield, hands gripping, bodies pressed together.
I recover, planting my feet and shifting my weight to flip us again and drag him beneath me. I hold myself just off him, tense, my legs straddling his hips, hands clamped around his wrists, our breath coming hard and fast. I shake with the effort of not collapsing fully into his body.
We’re close. Too close. I can feel the warmth of his skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest brushing mine with each inhale. His pulse flutters under my fingers, matching my own thundering beat. Sweat beads along his hairline. His jaw is tight, his gaze locked on mine, unreadable and intense.
Our faces are inches apart. Noses almost touching. I can see the dark flecks in his eyes. Feel the whisper of his breath against my lips.
My body screams for contact—for pressure, for friction, for something real. But I hold myself back, arms shaking now from restraint more than effort.
I’m painfully hard. Aware of every inch of space between us, and how little separates want from ruin.
It’s just a spar.
That’s the lie I cling to.
But gods, I want him. I’vealwayswanted him.
And right now, I’m one slip away from letting him know it.
“Leo,” he says softly, and it’s both warning and invitation.
I should move. Should get up, walk away, maintain the distance I’ve cultivated all these years.
Butfuckit. I’m tired of doing what’s proper instead of what’s right.
I lean down and capture his mouth in a hungry, desperate, burning kiss that’sfive fucking years too late. His lips part with a startled breath and then Rangi responds, surging up against me kissing me back, hard and fierce. His lips are demanding, and he tastes of coffee and sin.
His hands strain against my grip, and I release them, tangling my hands in his hair as he tugs me closer.
We devour each other.
There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s fire and fury. Teeth and tongue. Years of longing poured into every clash of our mouths. He arches under me, pulling me down so our chests brush, hips align, breath and heat and hunger tangled into a single, burning thread. His freed hand slides up my spine, palm flattening between my shoulder blades as if he can hold me together when I’m already spiralling apart.
A low sound escapes his throat, something between a growl and a moan, and it wrecks me. I deepen the kiss, angling to steal another gasp from him, chasing the way his mouth opens for me so easily. So perfectly.
I lose myself in the taste of him, the feel of his skin, the small sounds he makes when I?—
A door slams somewhere in the distance.
Reality crashes back. I jerk away, scrambling to my feet, my heart in my throat.
“Leo, wait?—”
