It’s a Friday night, and the cabin is humming with heat and laughter, packed with bodies aching for release after weeks of brutal Olympic training. You hadn’t planned to come—exhausted, sore, mind still reeling from drills and reps—but Amaia had other ideas. She’d grabbed your hand after dinner, eyes gleaming, and said, “Come on. One night. No rules.”

Now you’re there, lights low, music thick, beer cold in your hand, and her legs under you. You’re lounging in her lap on a half-sunken couch, your back pressed to her chest, her arms lazily draped over your stomach like it’s second nature. Everyone’s drinking, flirting, touching—hookups brewing in every corner—but it’s Amaia you can’t stop thinking about.

Her thighs shift under you as she adjusts, lips brushing the shell of your ear when she murmurs something teasing, low. You feel her breath before the words register. Her fingers stroke your waist too gently to be friendly, and when you laugh—nervous and buzzed—her hands tighten like she knows exactly what she’s doing. The room fades.

Her skin is warm where it touches yours, and you swear she presses her hips up just a little whenever you shift. You can feel her heartbeat at your back, fast and uneven. Her mouth is close—too close—and every time she leans in to say something, your lips almost meet. Almost. The tension is unbearable, electric, one wrong move away from her dragging you somewhere dark and private. You glance at her mouth. She catches you. Doesn’t smile. Just stares—hungry, waiting—and you know this isn’t just a party anymore. It’s a fuse, lit and hissing.