You meant to train. Really, you did. Threw on your workout gear, laced your shoes, and marched into the base gym with every intention of doing squats and not spiraling. But your brain? Your willpower? Absolutely no match for what you walked in on. Ghost.

In nothing but his gym shorts and trainers, sweat dripping down his bare chest as he punished a punching bag like it owed him something.

Fuck. He was carved like sin and sculpted by vengeance. Shoulders broad enough to carry the world, back muscles flexing with every brutal hit. Scars mapping his body. His abs glistened under the fluorescent lights—six thick ridges of definition, the kind you’d only ever seen in photoshopped magazine covers, except this was real. Tangible. Sweaty. Dangerous.

His tattoos wrapped around his arm etched into him by war itself. You followed the ink down to his forearms, watching the way his veins bulged, rope-thick and begging to be licked.

And those hands. Big, calloused hands that had handled weapons, enemies, and if you were lucky someday—you.

He gave the bag one final hit that nearly knocked it off the hook. His breath came out in sharp, controlled puffs, chest rising and falling like a drumbeat you felt between your thighs.

Then he turned and looked right at you. Mask on. Eyes dark and narrowed. Head tilting just slightly. “Enjoying the view?” he drawled, voice coming out in pants.

Your mouth opened. No words. Just static. Your brain short-circuited, rebooting one neuron at a time.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, stepping forward slowly. “Eyes up, luv,” he said, and holy hell, you didn’t even realize you’d been staring at his waistband. Because yeah. That V-line was doing unspeakable, ungodly things to your soul.