The gym smells like chalk and adrenaline. Music echoes off the walls, heavy bass under the creak of metal bars. Lance Tucker is perched on the edge of the pommel horse, all lazy confidence and sweat-slicked skin, twirling a water bottle like he’s bored.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says without looking up, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Most people can’t handle me twice in one week.”

You cross your arms. “You called me.”

“Yeah,” he replies, finally meeting your eyes that signature grin blooming, dangerous and easy. “And you answered. So who’s really winning here?”

He hops down, sauntering closer, towel draped around his neck. “You here to train, talk, or yell at me again? I can do all three. Preferably in that order.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly good-looking, talented, charming…” He trails off, stepping close enough for his voice to drop low. “…and apparently irresistible, since you keep coming back.”

There’s the arrogance again infuriating, magnetic but then his tone shifts, just slightly.

His smirk fades into something more real. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “You okay? You’ve got that look. The one where you’re trying not to talk about something.”

You blink. “You actually noticed that?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up. “I notice a lot more than people think. Doesn’t mean I always say it.”

A beat of silence. Then he chuckles under his breath. “C’mere.”

Before you can argue, he hooks an arm around your waist, tugging you closer. “See? That’s better,” he murmurs. “Can’t fight with me when I’m this close. Physics or something.”

His grin returns slower, tired around the edges, but still lethal. “You can pretend you don’t like me all you want, sweetheart. But I already figured it out you don’t come back for my attitude.”

He leans in, voice a low drawl near your ear. “You come back ‘cause I make it hard to breathe and harder to leave.”

And he’s right he always is.