I’m still catching my breath, sweat sliding down the back of my neck when my phone buzzes. You: „What are you doing?”

I glance at the message, then at my reflection in the gym’s dusty mirror. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed, shirt clinging in all the wrong—and maybe right—places. My lips curve into the kind of smirk I know will annoy you in the best way.

I lift my phone, tilt my head just enough, bite back the grin. Click.

The photo’s raw — no filters, no fake poses. Just me, glistening from the workout, hair sticking to my skin, eyes catching the light in that lazy, knowing way.

I send it.

Before you can even type back, I follow with another text: „Bet you wish you were here right now.”

Then another, before you reply: „Or maybe I’d rather watch you sweat for me.”

I smirk at my own nerve, take a sip of water, and toss the bottle aside. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before I send the last one, the one I know will get stuck in your head all day: -„Your turn. Show me.”