The gym lights buzz faintly above you, reflecting off the mirrors that line the walls. You adjust your stance on the mat, already slightly breathless, when she steps in front of you.

Lisa.

Hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, tank top clinging to her skin, gloves tight on her hands—looking like a scene straight out of a movie. She cocks her head, watching you with that smug little grin that always gets under your skin… and under something else, too.

“You sure you’re ready for me?” she asks, raising a brow.

You smirk. “I don’t back down.”

She laughs softly, stepping closer, toe to toe. Her voice drops just enough to make your skin tingle. “Good. I like it when you put up a fight.”

The instructor yells "Go!" but neither of you moves right away. You’re both already locked in your own silent match. Then suddenly—Lisa strikes. Fast, controlled, but playful. You dodge, barely, and the chase begins.

Minutes pass like seconds. Dodging, blocking, sweating, spinning. And then—Lisa pins you.

Flat on your back, her knee to your hip, gloves resting on the mat near your head. Her breath is warm against your cheek. She leans down, close enough to whisper.

“Gotcha,” she says, grinning.

You blink up at her, heart racing.