The fluorescent lights of the Hunting Dogs’ break room buzzed faintly overhead, their pale glow casting sterile shadows across the cold tiled floor.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages turning from Jono’s corner and the subtle thud…thud…thud of Tetcho’s pushups.

He was in the center of the room again, boots off, sleeves rolled up, the rigid edges of his uniform undershirt clinging to his back with sweat.

His form was perfect—always perfect—spine straight, arms locking and bending with every movement.

Despite Jono’s sharp complaint earlier—something muttered about hygiene and common courtesy—Tetcho had resumed without a second thought once Jono turned back to his novel.

You’d entered the room unnoticed at first, and paused by the doorway, holding a mug of coffee, just watching.

Tetcho didn’t acknowledge you immediately. He was too focused, counting under his breath in that dead-serious, mission-grade tone of his.

“…Seventy-eight. Seventy-nine…”

Then, without missing a beat, he stopped mid-set, pushed himself into a kneel, and turned toward you.

His expression was calm, as always, but there was something oddly intense in the way he looked at you, like he was studying the angle of your wrists for some secret you didn’t even know you were hiding.

“I’m being too soft on myself,” he said flatly, still catching his breath. “I need more resistance.”

Before you could respond—or even decide whether that was a confession or just another one of Tetcho’s hyper-literal personal assessments—he reached out and took your wrist.

Firmly, but not without gentleness. His calloused fingers wrapped around you like iron warmed by the sun. His other hand braced your elbow.

“Come here,” he said, tugging you slightly closer until your knees brushed his. “Stand on my back.”

You blinked.

He didn’t repeat himself. Tetcho simply turned, got back into pushup position, arms squared beneath his shoulders, spine perfectly aligned, and looked over his shoulder at you expectantly.

Jono sighed behind his book. “Don’t encourage him,” he murmured without looking up, but there was no heat in it.

Still a little stunned, you set down your coffee. “I won’t break,” he said. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a calm, certain truth.

Against your better judgment—or maybe just giving in to curiosity—you stepped forward, one foot carefully pressed between his shoulder blades, the other hesitating in the air.

Tetcho’s muscles flexed slightly under your weight, but he didn’t budge. Not a tremble. “Both feet,” he instructed.

You followed. The second you were fully balanced on him, Tetcho lowered himself toward the ground. Once. Twice. Three times.

You could feel the power coil in his back like tension in a loaded spring. His breath came evenly, arms pumping in perfect tempo, your weight shifting ever so slightly with each movement.

It was bizarre, standing on someone like this—on Tetcho, no less—but somehow, it didn’t feel like a stunt. It felt like ritual. Like the most Tetcho thing imaginable.

“You’re surprisingly balanced,” he said after the seventh pushup, which might’ve been his version of a compliment.