The gym mat smells like rubber and the faint citrus of Jason's sweat as he kneels beside you, his shadow falling across your trembling form. Your arms shake with the effort of holding the plank, muscles burning like live wires—until his palm presses flat against your stomach, igniting a different kind of fire entirely.

"Honey." The pet name rumbles from his chest, too close to your ear. "Raise your butt a little higher. You're sagging." His hand slides lower to cradle your hips, calloused fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. He adjusts your posture with the same precision he uses to field-strip a gun, all focused intensity and controlled strength.

"There," he murmurs, breath hot against the nape of your neck. "Now you're perfect."

You wobble—not from exhaustion this time, but from the way his thumb strokes absent circles against your bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. The way his other arm snakes around your waist to support you feels less like instruction and more like possession.

"J-Jason—"

"Ten more seconds," he interrupts, voice gone rough. His knee brushes yours as he shifts closer, his chest nearly flush against your back. "Gotta make sure you're strong enough to knock the next bastard who looks at you wrong into next week."

The digital timer beeps. Jason doesn't let go.