I don’t have an answer for that. Or maybe I do, but it’s not one I’m ready to give.
The training room feels smaller suddenly. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sound of someone vacuuming in another part of the building—it all fades to background noise. There’s just him, and me, and the three feet of charged air between us.
“Take a breath,” I say, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. “We can finish the session, or we can call it for today. Your choice.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, looking at me with those dark eyes, and I feel the weight of his attention like something physical. Like a touch.
“Tori...”
The way he says my name—low, rough—makes my heart stutter.
“Yeah?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. And I watch him make a decision, pulling back from whatever edge he was about to step over.
“Let’s finish,” he says. “I’ll slow down.”
I nod, ignoring the strange twist of disappointment in my chest. “Okay. From the top. And this time, actually listen to me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Yes, ma’am.”
We get back to work.
But something has shifted between us.
I hand him the resistance band and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.
12
JUST US
Zayden
The building is empty—the parking lot was nearly deserted, and the hallways were dim. It’s just us now. Me and Tori and the hum of the HVAC, and whatever this thing is that keeps pulling us together.
She’s working on my shoulder, her hands firm and focused. I’ve done this a hundred times with a dozen different trainers. Pressure, release. Find the knot, work it out. Clinical. Routine.
Except there’s nothing clinical about the way my pulse kicks up when she touches me. Nothing routine about the way I track her every movement—the rustle of her clothes when she shifts position, the soft exhale of her breath, the faint scent of something floral that cuts through the antiseptic smell of the training room.
Lavender, maybe. Or vanilla. Something soft and warm that makes me want to lean closer and breathe her in.
I don’t. I grip the edge of the treatment table and stare at the wall and pretend I’m not hyperaware of every single place her body is near mine.
It’s never felt like this.
Every point of contact burns. Her fingers rest on my bicep, and I have to concentrate on breathing, on not reacting, on keeping my body from doing something stupid.
She hits a tight spot near my neck, and I hiss before I can stop myself.
Her hands still. “Too much?”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “Keep going.”
She does. I have to close my eyes because if I look at her right now—if I see her face, her lips, the way she’s biting her bottom lip in concentration—she’s going to see everything. Every thought I’ve been trying to bury. Every want I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
She shifts to work from a different angle, moving around the table, and her body presses closer. The warmth of her radiates through the thin fabric of her polo, and I can feel the soft curve of her hip brush against my arm as she reaches across me.
Then—her breast grazes my bicep. Soft. Brief. Probably accidental.
