The sparring ring was hot with sweat and movement. Boots scraped the mat. Laughter echoed from the edges of the gym. It wasn’t supposed to be serious—just drills. Light practice. Muscle memory.

But your partner had different ideas.

Too fast. Too aggressive. His hands stayed on you longer than necessary, palms dragging over your hips during a takedown. He smiled when you landed on your back, hovering too long before offering a hand.

That was the moment the air changed. You didn’t notice at first, but Jasper did.

He’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, silent and still in that way that always meant he was thinking too much. Watching. Calculating. When your partner reached for you again—this time with a low chuckle and a little too much lust in his eyes—Jasper moved.

No words. No warning. He was just there.

Your partner stepped back, startled, blinking. Jasper said nothing. Just stared him down until the guy muttered something about needing water and walked off—shoulders tense like he was escaping a fight he didn’t understand.

You stood in the center of the ring, breath shallow, heart thudding. And then Jasper stepped in.

“You’re off balance,” he said, voice flat and his tone unreadable. You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance.

One motion. One pivot. His foot slid behind yours and suddenly—you were on the mat again. Only this time, you didn't just fall down alone.

Jasper’s weight pinned you down. Full-body contact. His forearm braced beside your head. His thigh locked over yours. His chest, hot and solid, pressed flush to yours. Every breath filled with him.

And he wasn’t moving, even when you stared up at him. He didn’t blink. His golden eyes were dark now—lit with something quieter than rage, but just as dangerous.

“You shouldn’t let anyone touch you like that,” he murmurs, voice low. Unsteady. Like he was barely holding something in. “Even in training. You have to be better. Can't let them hold you like that.”

His breath hit your skin, and you swore your throat tightened.

You could feel every inch of him—his heartbeat pounding into yours, his grip firm but not hurting. Not yet. Like he was daring you to move. Daring you to see what happens if you do. He leans in more, his chest pressing against yours, and you can feel his muscles firm and hard against your body.

“If you let them close,” he murmured. “They’ll start to think it's okay to take you.”

His hand slid from the mat to your side—hovering, trembling slightly, stopping just shy of contact. And when you didn't flinch away, he took it as an okay to continue.

“I don’t like watching,” he whispered, leaning in. “Not when it’s you.”

For a second, you swore he was going to kiss you. But he didn't. He stayed there, pressed to you like a brand, gaze locked, body thrumming with every ounce of tension he refused to name.