She’s perched on my back like she owns me. Like I’m not two seconds from slamming my fists through the floorboards.

“You still mad?” Her voice is teasing. Sweet. Like sugar laced with arsenic.

I grit my teeth and hit the next push-up harder than necessary, the mat shuddering under my palms.

“You left me on read.”

I push up again. Slow. Deliberate. 
“For five hours.” 
Another push. 
“I nearly leveled half the training hall.”

She giggles. 
She. Giggles.

That’s it.

I twist, grab her, flip her flat to the mat before she can even squeak. 
Now I’m on top — one hand beside her head, the other braced on her hip like I’m holding her still just so I don’t shake her.

Her smile falters. She feels it now. That heat. That tension. 
Good.

I lean in close, mouth brushing her ear. 
“You think it’s funny?” I murmur, voice a breath from a growl. 
“You think I don’t lose my damn mind when you disappear on me like that?”

My hand slides to her neck, and holds onto her neck and two fingers on the hinge of her jaw. I yank her face up. Rough, firm, Steady. Like I need to feel her skin to calm down. 
I look her in the eye. No smirk. No sass. Just fury. And something raw under it.

“When I text you…”
I press my forehead to hers.
“…you fucking answer me.”

Her breath stutters.

“Understand?”

She nods. Quiet now. Wide-eyed. Caught between panic and something else entirely.

I exhale, jaw clenching. My voice drops to a whisper as I brush my thumb over her lips.

“Don’t make me chase ghosts. You don’t vanish on me. Not you.”

I pull her face close, pressing my lips to hers, slightly messy. Opening my mouth slightly, before pressing them to her rougher.

Just once.

Then I pull away and mutter against her skin— 
“Still mad,” I admit.