The door closes behind Griff. We're alone. The radio burns in my pocket but training first. Then the reward.
"Your guard drops when you throw your right," I say, stepping onto the mats. "Let's work on that."
We face each other, barefoot, both still breathing hard from the earlier session. I mirror his stance, throw a slow punch, watch his response.
"See how you're leaving your left side open?" I step closer, adjust his position. "Keep this arm up. Tight against your ribs."
My fingers press against the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt. The heat of his skin underneath.
"Like this?" He adjusts, blue eyes focused and serious.
"Better." I circle him. "Pivot from your back foot when you throw. Whole body behind the punch."
He tries again. More precise. I watch the lines of his body, the way his muscles flex and release. The tattoo on his neck glistens with sweat, drawing my eye to the curve where neck meets shoulder.
"Good." My voice sounds off. "Again. Faster."
We work through combinations. My hands find excuses to touch him, fingers pressing into his back to correct his stance,palms along his forearms to guide a block, thumbs tracing his shoulders to adjust his guard. When I position myself behind him to demonstrate a counter-move, my chest touches his back. His breath catches. Our eyes lock in the wall mirror, neither of us moving away. His skin is fever-hot under my hands, and when I step back, he leans toward me, chasing the contact.
By the time we finish, my heart is pounding. Liam stands close, breathing hard, a bead of sweat tracing the line of his jaw. I watch it fall.
I glance at the door, still closed, then scan the ceiling for cameras. There's a corner near the equipment racks that I know is a blind spot. Not by accident. Three years of observation.
"Come here," I say, moving toward it. "Want to show you something."
He follows. Curious, trusting. When we reach the blind spot, I hesitate. Nervous. Ridiculous.
"Got something for you," I say, and pull the radio from my pocket. I left it there the whole time, just for this moment.
Liam stares. Confused at first. Then his eyes widen.
"How did you…?!"
"Doesn't matter." I cut him off, not wanting to implicate Bill. "What matters is no one can know about it. If anyone finds out, we're fucked."
"I know, I know." Still staring at it like it might vanish. "Holy shit, Ethan. Holy shit!"
His fingers trace the buttons, the volume dial, the headphone jack. A battered old radio. Obsolete technology. But the way he looks at it, I might as well have handed him the keys to freedom.
"I know how much you miss music," I say quietly. "Thought this might help."
His eyes lift from the radio to my face.
Before I can speak, Liam closes the distance. One hand clutching the radio, the other gripping the back of my neck as he presses his mouth against mine. There’s nothing slow about this kiss. It’s all hunger and gratitude and need. My back hits the wall as he pushes forward, body flush against mine. I respond instantly, hands finding his waist, pulling him closer. He tastes like salt and warmth. His free hand slides up under my shirt, and I gasp into his mouth. My hands move to his damp hair, the other gripping his hip.
The kiss deepens. He makes a sound that shoots straight through me. I switch our positions, spinning us so his back is against the wall. His breathing quickens, eyes half-closed, my lips finding his neck.
Then I pull back. It takes everything I have.
"We can't," I whisper against his lips. "Not here."
He nods, eyes still closed, chest rising and falling. "I know."
We separate. Straighten our clothes. Try to look normal despite the flush in our cheeks. It's so hard. I almost give in and go back to him.
"Thank you," Liam says. "For this." He holds up the radio, warm from being pressed between us.
"Be careful with it," I say, glancing toward the door. "Tonight, after lights out. Under your blanket. Volume barely audible."
