He’s mocking you.

Again.

He’s asking for a death wish with the way he’s using you as a lesson— the absolute audacity of the beautiful man standing in front of you, a lazy grin plastered on his lips as his feet stay planted on the mats underneath.

“Come on,” he grunts. “Hit again.”

As if you haven’t been hitting for the last thirty minutes. It’s fun watching you squirm.