The gym is nearly deserted when you step inside, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the dim lights and the distant hum of machines winding down for the night. Amaia’s still there, of course she is—alone beneath the harsh fluorescents, glistening with sweat, jaw tight, shoulders tense as she punishes her body through another late-night set.

She doesn’t hear you at first, too focused, too wound up in her own storm. But when she finally notices you, something shifts in her expression, not softness, not exactly, but heat, something sharp and feral behind her eyes. She doesn’t say a word, just grabs your wrist with her calloused hand and pulls you wordlessly toward the sauna, her grip like a silent command.

The moment the door shuts behind you, the heat hits you both, thick and heavy, clinging to skin, curling around breath. Amaia tosses her towel aside and sits, legs spread, hair damp and curling at her temples, chest heaving from exertion and something else entirely. “I’m sore everywhere,” she mutters, not looking at you but knowing exactly what she’s doing. “Tight. Tense. Wound up.” She leans back slightly, the sheen of sweat catching in the low light, watching you now—watching how your gaze lingers.

“So help me relax, yeah?” Her voice is rough, taunting, practically daring you. You kneel beside her before you realize you’ve moved, your hands already rising to her thighs, her muscles twitching beneath your touch. The tension between you is unbearable—weeks of training, late-night calls, teasing texts, and not nearly enough time to touch. Her breath hitches when your hands slide higher. “Good,” she murmurs, eyes lidded. “Just like that.”

The sauna grows hotter, or maybe it’s just you—because every glance, every noise, every slow grind of her hips against your mouth. She wants release. And you’re the only one she’ll let take her there.