Heat flickers low in my stomach.
Annoying.
“Stair work isn’t glamour cardio,” I say.
“Neither is losing minutes late game.”
I glance back, cock a brow, “You really love punishment.”
He’s already moving.
No showing off. No joking. Just grinding beside me like this isn’t new, like he’s been here all summer.
That unsettles me more than arrogance would have.
We run in silence for two sets.
His breathing stays even. Controlled. Matching mine without trying to outrun me.
I stop at the top.
He stops too.
Close enough that I can feel heat radiating off him. That clean salt-and-soap smell mixed with sweat that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
“How’s the beach?” I ask, because distance is safer. I saw the Snap posts going around campus with#Valeand#Huzzhuntingtags all of him tan, shirtless and gorgeous with the Pacific framing behind him.
“Hot.”
“I’ll bet.”
His mouth tilts.
“Jealous?”
I roll my eyes, but it’s defensive.
He laughs —low, brief—and my chest does that stupid tightening thing it used to do in hallways at Royal Oaks when he said my name like it mattered.
And then he does it again.
“Stella.”
Just that.
Soft. Rough. Like a secret he’s not supposed to say out loud.
My body remembers before my brain does.
Velvet curtain. Electricity. My hands fisted in his shirt. The live-wire feeling of wanting and being wanted back.
I shut it down immediately.
“You don’t have to follow me around.”
“I’m not following you.”
“You just happen to develop a passion for stairs every time I’m on them?”
