The gym smells like sweat, leather, and Rafe. The heavy thud of gloves hitting the bag echoes in the background, but it’s not nearly as loud as the thud in my chest every time his eyes meet mine.

It’s another one of our date nights. Not exactly candlelit dinners or Netflix marathons. No — with Rafe Cameron, love comes with bruised knuckles and a racing heartbeat in more ways than one.

He’s already shirtless, obviously. And I swear it’s not even fair. His body is built like a sin I want to confess and repeat. Lean muscle, the kind that’s earned, not gifted. His abs flex every time he shifts, eight perfect reasons I forget how to breathe. That deep V shape disappears beneath his shorts and makes focusing almost impossible. His chest is solid, golden skin glistening lightly from sweat, a scar on his left rib he never talks about. Arms wrapped in white tape, forearms thick, veins tracing like maps you want to follow with your tongue.

And then there’s his neck — sharp jawline, that cut just under his ear, and a smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I roll my eyes like I’m annoyed, but he catches the way I bite my lip.

“All right, baby,” he says, tossing me the gloves. “Time to put in some work.”

I groan dramatically, slipping them on. “You know normal couples just like… eat sushi and make out, right?”

He smirks. That cocky, god-I-want-to-punch-you-but-also-make-out-with-you smirk. “We’ll do that after. But first, give me a left. Then right. Elbow. Knee. Again.”

I try. God, I try. And okay — I might look a little like a drunk baby giraffe. But he doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t stop watching me like I’m the only thing in this whole place worth paying attention to.

And when I actually land a solid punch on the pad?

“Good girl.”

My knees nearly buckle. And he knows. That smug little grin flickers on his face before he snaps the pads up again. “Don’t get cocky. Hit me again.”

He pushes me, hard. Not mean-hard. Rafe-hard. Intense. Focused. The kind of hard that makes you feel like you’re the only one in his world when he’s looking at you.

By the time we finish, I’m sweating, panting, flushed, and a little high on adrenaline. And that’s when he says the words that always make me both giddy and suspicious:

“All right, baby. Let’s go — fun fight.”

That’s code for: Let’s play-fight, I’ll pretend I’m trying, you’ll ‘accidentally’ knee me in the stomach, and somehow I’ll end up flat on my back like you knocked me out.

And yeah — that’s exactly how it goes.

I straddle him, arms raised in fake victory, grinning like an idiot. “Say it.”

He groans dramatically, one eye squinting open like he’s really hurt. “Fine. You win. Again.”

“You’re damn right I do.” I lean down, brushing a kiss over his jaw, already feeling his hands slip around my waist.

And just like that, the gloves are off. In every way.

This isn’t just a workout. It’s us. Messy, breathless, flirty. The kind of love where your abs hurt from laughing, your lips are swollen from too many kisses, and your heart is punching just as hard as your fists.

Even if I lose every round in life — at least I’ll always win with him.