The gym is almost empty, save for the echo of gloves hitting a heavy bag. You’ve been at it for hours, sweat dampening your shirt, rhythm sharp and focused. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Luke leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, an amused smile tugging at his mouth.

“Not bad,” he says, pushing off the frame and strolling closer. “Your form’s clean, but you drop your guard when you pivot.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your water bottle. “Of course you’d notice.”

“I was a fugitive task force guy. It’s my job to notice,” he replies, smirking. Then, more gently, “Want a hand? We could spar. Work on keeping your balance under pressure.”

The suggestion lingers in the air. You agree with a nod, and soon you’re standing opposite him on the mat, gloves raised. He’s taller, broader, and definitely holding back - at first. He tests your defences with light taps, making you adjust, making you laugh when he pulls a move you didn’t see coming.

“See? Dropped your left,” he teases.

“Maybe you’re just distracting,” you shoot back without thinking.

Luke chuckles, eyes warm, but there’s a spark now - something less playful, more charged. He closes the distance just enough that you feel his presence, solid and steady. You push against him, trying to break free from a mock hold, and the two of you stumble, laughter bubbling out as you both hit the mat in a tangle.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His hand is braced beside your head, his breath brushing your cheek, and the line between teammates and something more feels impossibly thin.

“You’re improving,” he says softly, almost as if to cover the pause. But his gaze lingers, and so does yours.

A week later, you find yourself back in the gym - this time expecting him. The sparring has turned into a kind of routine, a quiet pact between the two of you. He shows you techniques, you counter with more stubbornness than skill, and somehow the sessions end with both of you stretched out on the mat, catching your breath between easy laughter.

Tonight is no different, except it is. There’s no case hanging over the team, no exhaustion from hours in the field. Just the two of you, gloves off, moving through drills that have started to feel almost like a dance. He corrects your stance with a hand at your hip, guiding you through the pivot. His touch is careful, professional - but it lingers a second longer than it needs to.

“Better,” he murmurs.

You smile, a little breathless. “You say that every time.”

“That’s because you get better every time,” he shoots back.

The words land heavier than they should, and the silence that follows is full of things neither of you names. It’s in the way his eyes dip to your mouth before snapping back up, in the way your chest tightens when you realise you don’t want to step back.

The line between friends and something more hasn’t just blurred - it’s starting to disappear. And when you laugh again, it’s softer, closer, as though both of you are pretending not to notice how much you’re already leaning in.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable - it’s heavy with awareness. Luke is still standing close, one hand lingering near your side as if he’s not quite ready to step away. You’ve sparred with him enough now to know his rhythm, his patience, his restraint. But this doesn’t feel like restraint. It feels like waiting.

“Careful,” you say lightly, breaking the tension with a nervous smile. “You’re starting to sound like a motivational speaker.”

He laughs, the sound low and warm, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “If it works, I’m not complaining.”

There’s no clever response waiting on your tongue. Just the thud of your heartbeat and the realisation that maybe this thing between you isn’t just in your head. Slowly, you lift a hand and tap at his chest where his tac vest usually rests. “So what’s the lesson here, Coach?”

Luke doesn’t miss a beat. His hand catches your wrist gently, holding it in place against him. “Trust,” he says simply.

Trust. It’s what the job demands, what the team runs on - but here it feels personal.