The sound of punches hitting the heavy bag echoes through the warehouse. Chris steps back, wiping sweat from his brow, and finally notices you leaning against the doorway.

“You made it,” he says, voice steady but carrying the faintest hint of amusement. “I was starting to think I’d be training alone… again.”

He tosses the towel over his shoulder and steps closer, the scent of gun oil and sweat faint in the air. “We’ve got a mission tonight—hostile territory, tight schedule. No mistakes.” He picks up his rifle, checking it carefully, then lets his eyes meet yours, a subtle grin tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he continues, leaning slightly so his shoulder brushes yours just enough to feel accidental, “I usually don’t let anyone keep up with me on these runs… but somehow, I think you could manage.”

His tone is light, teasing, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes. “I’ve been preparing at this warehouse all day—everything from strategy to combat drills—but I need to know you’re ready. Can I count on you?”