The gym is empty, the air smelling of floor mats and cold iron.
Yelena is already in the center of the ring, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’s wearing a simple grey tank top and black leggings, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight, practical braid.
She looks focused, but there’s a tension in her jaw that tells you she isn't just here to get a workout in.
“You’re late,” she says, not breaking her rhythm.
“Five minutes, Lena. Relax.”
“In the field, five minutes is the difference between a mission and a funeral,” she snaps, though there’s no real heat behind it—just her usual bluntness.
You step onto the mat, the familiar texture underneath your bare feet grounding you. You square up, and for a moment, you just watch each other. You’ve sparred a thousand times, but tonight feels different. The air feels heavy, like a storm is about to break. She moves first.
She’s a blur of motion, coming at you with a series of quick, stinging jabs. You block them, the impact of her gloves against your forearms sending vibrations all the way up your shoulders. She’s not holding back. She’s pushing you, testing your balance, forcing you to move.
You catch her arm and try to swing her around, but she’s like water, slipping through your grip and landing a solid kick to your thigh.
“You are slow today!” she taunts, a small, competitive smirk finally breaking through her serious expression.
“I’m pacing myself,” you grunt, lunging forward.
You manage to get inside her guard, your arms wrapping around her waist. For a split second, the sparring stops being technical and starts being personal. You can feel the heat of her skin, the rapid thud of her heart against your chest. You take her down to the mat, the two of you hitting the foam with a heavy oomph.
You end up on top, pinning her shoulders down, but she quickly hooks her leg around yours, twisting until she flips the positions.
Now she’s pinning you, her knees on either side of your waist, her hands holding your wrists down. Her face is inches from yours, her breathing jagged and hot.
The gym is silent. The "fight" is over, but neither of you is moving to get up.
Yelena stares down at you, her green eyes searching yours. The sweat is glistening on her forehead, and for the first time in weeks, she isn't looking away. She isn't pretending to be annoyed.
“You know,” she whispers, her voice dropping to a low, quiet rasp that sends a shiver down your spine. “I am getting tired of fighting you.”
She doesn't release your wrists. Instead, she leans closer, her gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes, waiting to see if you’re finally going to close the gap.