The first push-up was controlled.

The second was slower.

By the fifth, she realized he wasn’t struggling at all.

Slade’s hands were planted firmly against the mat, back straight as steel beneath her. She sat cross-legged between his shoulder blades, arms loosely draped over his shoulders like this was completely normal.

It wasn’t.

“Sit still,” he muttered, lowering himself again.

She shifted on purpose.

His core tightened instantly to compensate.

“…You’re doing that deliberately.”

Another push-up.

Down.

Up.

Effortless.

“You wanted to see if I was actually working,” he continued evenly. “Now you’re part of the workout.”

He adjusted her legs slightly so her weight was centered.

“Balance.”

Lower.

Hold.

His muscles flexed beneath her, steady and precise.

“Don’t lean forward,” he instructed. “You’ll throw off distribution.”

She leaned anyway.

He didn’t collapse.

Didn’t wobble.

Just exhaled sharply through his nose and powered back up.

“Testing me,” he said flatly.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Add ten more.”

He dropped again, slower this time, making the motion controlled enough that she had to grip his shoulders to stay steady.

“That’s the point,” he added. “You adjust under pressure.”

Another rep.

Another steady rise.

By the time he finished, his breathing had deepened—but not broken.

He stayed in plank position for a moment longer, unmoving.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

Then, without waiting for an answer, he shifted just enough to make her squeak in surprise before carefully rolling to his side, catching her before she hit the mat.

He stood in one fluid motion, offering a hand up.

“Next time,” he said, calm and mildly amused, “you’re counting.”