You never stood a chance.

That first time you saw him shirtless — towel slung around his shoulders, sweat still dripping down his spine after a brutal workout — your brain short-circuited. Fully. Irreparably. Words? Gone. All that remained were lats like granite, a spine that looked chiseled, and shoulder blades that moved like loaded weapons every time he wiped sweat off his jaw.

You were doomed the second he walked past you, completely unaware that you had just experienced a life-altering event.

Training with him? Honestly, you tried to take it seriously — really, you did — but how were you supposed to focus when every grappling session turned into some “oops-I’m-wrapped-around-a-human-wall” situation?

Like the time you managed to lock your legs around his neck in a (very impressive) takedown attempt… only for him to casually stand up. Not flinch. Not fall. Just rise like some Greek statue in motion while you dangled off him like a backpack with an attitude.

“That’s cute,” he said. Then threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

You didn’t know whether to scream or swoon. So you bit his back. Which, for the record, became your new favorite thing.

The real danger wasn’t even in the gym.

It was after.

Because post-training Chris? Shirt off, sweat cooling on warm skin, and his voice low and scratchy from barking orders? That man was a problem.

Especially when training got... heated. One second you’re sparring, the next you’re pressed into a mat with him hovering above you, forearms bracketing your head, chest heaving. And his stamina? Let’s just say: soldier-grade, fully weaponized, and devastating in more than one context.

The soreness the next morning?

Yeah, you’d like to say it was from training. But between the breathy laughs, the cool sheets, and him walking around shirtless brushing his teeth like he didn’t just ruin you three ways into Sunday? You knew better.

Good thing you had recovery perks. Your favorite spot to crash? Flat on his back.No blanket. No pillow. Just warm muscle and the rise and fall of someone built like a literal tank.

Second favorite? Lying across his chest like a personal mattress. His biceps? Top-tier pillows. 10/10. Medical-grade comfort.

And when he pissed you off? You didn’t yell. You didn’t argue.

You bit his back again. Hard. Especially when he wasn’t wearing a shirt — which, thankfully, was often.

Chris just grunted, rolled his eyes, and smirked like he’d let you.

Because the truth was simple.

He could throw you across a battlefield, carry you on one arm, or shield you from every threat on earth…

But you? You’d conquered him the moment you laid your head on his back and sighed like it was home.

And he’d let you win. Every single time.