You leaned against the ropes of the boxing ring, arms crossed as you watched Charlie move. He was focused, precise, his punches landing against the bag with sharp, practiced movements. You had seen him train before, but it never got any less impressive.

He glanced at you between strikes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You sure you don’t wanna give it a shot?” He dropped his hands, turning fully toward you now. “I’ll teach you the basics. Just a few moves.”

You hesitated, but the way he was looking at you—challenging, teasing—made it hard to say no. With a sigh, you rolled your eyes.

A few minutes later, you were standing in the ring with him, your hands wrapped, feet planted, trying —and failing— to copy his stance. He stepped closer, nudging your foot into the right position with his.

“Keep your hands up,” he said, gently adjusting your arms. “Elbows in.”

You tried, but it still felt awkward, and when he showed you how to throw a punch, it was even worse. He laughed when you missed the imaginary target entirely, shaking his head.

“Okay, that was—yeah, that was bad,” he admitted, grinning. He reached out, guiding your arm into position, his fingers brushing against your skin. And that’s when you noticed it—how close he was, how his lips were just slightly parted as he focused, how annoyingly good he looked when he was in his element.

“You listening?” His voice snapped you out of your daze.