It’s not reprimanding.
It’s too warm. Too aware. Too full of a meaning he’s been trying to hide.
I step down from the machine, breath still heavy from the rhythm of the workout, and wipe my face with the edge of my shirt.
“Like what?” I ask, letting the corners of my mouth curve because I want him to feel that I’m not scared of him, or of us, or of the way tension has been building between us like a storm.
His eyes track the movement. The way my shirt lifts slightly. The way sweat beads at my sternum. The way my leggings hug my hips. His jaw flexes.
He doesn’t look away.
My legs are a little shaky, the mix of exertion and adrenaline mingling in a dizzying way I don’t bother fighting. The skin around my tattoo feels warm, sensitive, like it’s aware of the eyes on me.
I walk toward him.
He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, breath steadying, but his shoulders stay tense, like he’s bracing for impact.
“You keep staring,” he says. “Like you’re trying to figure me out.”
“I am,” I say.
His eyes flash. Something sharp and alive flickers there. “Don’t.”
I stop a foot away from him. “Then stop being interesting.”
His breath catches. Just a fraction.
He bends to grab his water bottle, taking a long, controlled drink. The flex of his throat, the shift of his shoulders—it all feels like an invitation he’s trying not to extend.
“Spar with me,” he says finally, voice calm but threaded with something raw underneath. “Your head’s too full.”
“So is yours,” I say.
He huffs out a breath. “Exactly.”
We meet in the center of the mat.
His stance forms instantly: feet grounded, knees soft, shoulders loose. Mine follows automatically. My body knows his rhythm almost better than it knows its own.
We move slowly at first.
Measuring.
Reading.
Breathing.
He tests my guard with a gentle tap; I parry. He steps in, I pivot out. We circle each other, the air between us tightening with each pass.
When he corrects my elbow angle, his fingers brush the inside of my arm—warm, rough, lingering half a second too long. Heatsparks under my skin. I catch his wrist in response; his pulse jumps under my thumb.
His eyes flick to mine.
Everything inside me pulls toward him.
He moves in with a sweep. I block too slowly. He catches my hips, pivots me, draws me backward with the kind of control that makes my breath leave my lungs. His chest meets my back for the briefest moment—solid, hot, overwhelming—before I slip out of his hold and turn to face him again.
We’re closer now.
