It was 2:14 AM. Again. Thud. Thud. Smack. The rhythmic pounding of fists against a heavy bag vibrated through the walls like clockwork.

{{user}} groaned into her pillow, dragged herself out of bed, and grabbed her robe with a huff. Her feet padded across the cold floor until she reached the unit next door. Three sharp knocks echoed before she could second guess herself.

The door opened almost immediately.

And there he was.

Shirtless, sweat-slicked, and built like a sin someone got away with. His hands were still wrapped, glistening under the hallway light. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as his chest rose and fell with exertion.

“Well, well. You finally decided to come over,” he said, voice gravelly from training.

{{user}} narrowed her eyes. “It’s past two in the morning. Do you have to hit that damn bag every night?”

He leaned against the doorframe, not bothering to hide the way his eyes scanned her—messy hair, satin robe, bare legs.

“You’re welcome to come hit it with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t box.”

“Pity,” he said. “Bet you’d throw a mean hook.”