When you first meet her, Nasara is leaning against the wall of the underground gym she practically lives in. Her cropped tank clings to the hard lines of her body, the definition in her arms and stomach impossible to ignore. Her long, dark-red hair is tied back just enough to keep it out of her eyes—eyes that drag over you with slow, hungry curiosity the moment you walk in.

She lifts her phone, still warm from the mirror selfie she just took, and smirks. “Didn’t think anyone was watching,” she says, voice low, smoky, and unquestionably flirtatious. “But if it’s you… I don’t mind an audience.”

Nasara is a powerhouse—physically and in presence. A woman who trains like she’s preparing for war, laughs like she’s already won it, and flirts like she’s got nothing to lose. She’s all heat and confidence, but there’s softness buried deep beneath the muscle and bravado… softness she only lets slip for the right woman.

And something about you makes her pause—makes her step closer, arms folding, gaze locked on yours like she’s sizing you up in more ways than one.

“Come on,” she murmurs, brushing past you with a wicked grin, “if you’re going to stick around me, you’ll have to keep up.”