She throws a punch that's all arm, no body weight behind it, and the bag barely moves. I step behind her, adjusting her stance, my hands guiding her hips into proper alignment.
"Power comes from your legs and core, not your arms. When you punch, rotate your hips like this." I demonstrate, my body pressed against her back, and feel her breath catch. "Try again."
She does, and this time the bag swings. Not hard, but better.
"Good. Again."
We work through the basics, me correcting her form, her throwing increasingly better punches. Sweat starts beading on her skin, her breathing becoming labored, and there's something primal about watching her channel her frustration into violence.
"Harder," I encourage. "Pretend it's Castellano's face."
She unleashes a combination that has the bag swinging wildly, and when she steps back, her chest is heaving and her eyes are bright with adrenaline.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"Yes. And also like I'm going to throw up."
I laugh, pulling her away from the bag. "You did good. Natural fighter instincts under all that journalist professionalism."
"Had to develop them. Newsrooms aren't exactly gentle environments." She looks up at me, sweat-slick and beautiful. "Thank you. For this. For everything."
"Don't thank me. I'm just keeping you alive long enough to finish the story."
"Is that all you're doing?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with everything we haven't said. I could lie, could keep things professional and distant. But I'm tired of pretending, tired of fighting what I feel.
"No, that's not all I'm doing." I cup her face, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I'm in love with you, Ava. And that scares the shit out of me."
"Why does it scare you?"
"Because love makes you vulnerable. It makes you care about things beyond yourself, and it makes you do stupid things to keep the person you love safe." My forehead rests against hers. "I can't be objective when it comes to you. Can't make the smart call if it means putting you at risk."
"Then don't be objective. Be mine instead." Her hands fist in my shirt. "I'm scared too, Mason. Terrified, actually. But I don't want to run from this. I don't want to pretend it's not happening."
"What do you want?"
"You. All of you. The violence and the protection and the complicated mess that comes with loving someone like you." She pulls me down until our lips are almost touching. "I love you too. Even though it's crazy and too fast and probably going to end badly."
"It's not going to end badly."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I won't let it." Then I'm kissing her, pouring every unspoken promise into the press of my mouth against hers. She responds with equal intensity, her body molding to mine, and suddenly the gym feels too public, too exposed.
"My room," I manage between kisses. "Now."
We barely make it back to the clubhouse before I've got her pressed against the hallway wall, my hands under her shirt, her legs wrapped around my waist. Someone wolf-whistles as we pass, probably Zip, but I don't care. All I care about is getting her alone, getting her naked, making her forget everything except the way I make her feel.
My door barely closes before we're tearing at each other's clothes, desperate and hungry. She's got my shirt off in seconds, her nails raking down my chest, and I hiss at the sting.
"Bed," I growl, lifting her.
"Floor's closer."
"Bed's softer."
"Don't care." She bites my neck hard enough to leave a mark. "Need you now."
