“That your third energy drink or your fourth?”

Joaquin leans against the gym doorframe, towel slung over his shoulder, arms still glistening from the run he definitely took his time on. His smile is easy, bright—but his eyes are already scanning your form like he’s counting bruises he didn’t put there.

“Y’know, you could take it easy once in a while. You don’t have to win every sparring match.”

He walks in, slow and casual—like it’s any other night. But you can feel the buzz in the air shift the second he crosses the mat. The gym is empty. Everyone’s cleared out. Just you, him… and the silence where the rest of the world should be.

“You hit me hard today,” he says. “Right in the ribs. I’m gonna pretend it wasn’t personal.”

But the way he steps closer says otherwise. You’re both still in combat gear—sweat-slick and electric. He stops right in front of you, gaze falling to your lips for just a second too long.

“Want a rematch?” he murmurs. “Or do you just want me to admit I let you win—so you’ll make me pay for it?”