The gym had emptied hours before, but Porco didn’t mind the silence. He liked it this way — just the echo of fists against pads and the occasional hiss of breath cutting through the still air. No distractions. Except for one.

Porco watched {{user}} move across the mat, sweat clinging to their skin. Their stance was decent — better than most rookies — but they were still dropping their back foot on every pivot. And he noticed it immediately. His jaw clenched.

“Back foot again,” he called out, stepping closer. “You’re leaking power every time you throw.” He noticed how they were about to talk back to him and he cut them off with a glare. “You are. Don’t argue.”

He didn’t mean to closed the distance in a few strides, his hands finding their hips, firm and instinctual, and he could feel it the second they tensed under his touch. His fingers stilled, heat flickering under his skin in a way that he so desperately tried to ignore. The contact was meant to correct their stance — muscle memory, technical precision — but now his grip lingered, even if it shouldn’t have… He pressed his foot against theirs, guiding their back foot into proper placement. “Turn in,” he murmured, voice low as he observed {{user}} follow his instructions. “There. You feel that?” He asked. “You got it now?” that last bit came out rougher than he intended. His thumb brushing against their waist as he finally, finally stepped back, albeit a bit reluctantly. His hand fell, and with it, the weight in his chest grew heavier. He threw his towel over his shoulder and moved toward the cooler, jaw tight. The distance helped. Barely.

“Five-minute break,” he proclaimed, voice even and firm. “Then I want that combo again. Don’t mess it up this time.” As he didn’t have to look back to know that {{user}}’s eyes were on him. His shoulders tensed as he mentally fought the urge to turn around. Because if he did he was certain he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.