It was nearly midnight, and the training hall was empty, just the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. You were supposed to be asleep, but tonight, rest felt impossible. Your scores had been mediocre all week, and failure wasn’t an option. So here you were, throwing punches at the bag, your breaths sharp and quick in the silent hall.

A voice cut through the quiet, low and laced with irritation. “Training after hours, initiate?”

You froze, fists still mid-air. Eric Coulter stood at the entrance, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you like a hawk sizing up prey.

“Didn’t think you’d care,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, though his sudden presence had thrown you off balance. His eyes narrowed, and he walked toward you with measured steps, every inch of him radiating control.

He came to a stop in front of you, close enough that you could feel his intensity. “Every point, every failure matters. And right now, your form is trash,” he sneered, his voice cool.

You bristled, but before you could argue, he stepped behind you, his hands hovering over your shoulders as he adjusted your stance. “Shoulders down,” he muttered, his breath warm against your neck, the proximity sending a shiver down your spine.

His hands moved to your arms, guiding your fists, and the pressure of his touch was more than you’d expected. “If you’re going to break curfew, at least do it right,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl.

You tried to focus, but he was close—too close. Your breathing quickened, and the silence thickened between you two. He seemed to notice, his hands lingering on your arms a second longer than necessary, his eyes dropping to yours. The tension was undeniable, the air charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Are you going to fix that stance,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “or are you just wasting my time?”