The sparring mat thudded beneath your back as you hit the floor hard, the air knocked clean from your lungs.

John stood over you, breathing heavy, sweat gleaming along his jawline. His boot pressed down against your chest — not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to remind you who had the upper hand this round.

“That’s three times,” he said, smug and breathless. “You sure you’re cleared for this, or just trying to get close to me?”

You glared up at him, hands pinned beside you on the mat. “Cocky much?”

He tilted his head. “Confident.”

You shifted beneath him, trying to push up — but he didn’t move. The weight of his foot kept you grounded, eyes locked, tension crackling like a live wire between you.

“You know I could flip you,” you muttered.

John grinned. “Yeah? Then why haven’t you?”

You met his stare, refusing to look away. His pupils were blown, his jaw tight — not from exertion, but restraint. Like something else was crawling under his skin now. Something hot and impatient.

“You like it down there?” he murmured, voice low. “Or are you just waiting for me to make the next move?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because your body was already doing the talking — breath coming faster, heart racing under his boot, blood thrumming with something far more dangerous than combat.

And judging by the flicker in his eyes, he felt it too.