Nash pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut as if he could physically press the frustration out of his skull.

“For fuck’s sake, Charlie. Stop it.”

His voice carried the rough edge of someone who had already said the same thing too many times. He didn’t even look at you when he said it. Instead, he turned back to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling and drove his fist into it with a dull, heavy thud.

The bag swung slightly on its chain.

So did your attention.

Gods, he looked good like this.

Sweat slicked his skin, darkening the fabric of his shirt and clinging to the hard lines of his shoulders. The overhead light caught the sheen across his arms as they flexed with every punch, muscles tightening and releasing in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. His breathing was heavier now, slower through his nose, like he was trying to ground himself.

Trying very hard not to look at you.

Which, of course, only made you stare more.

You leaned casually against the wall like you hadn’t been deliberately distracting him for the past twenty minutes. Like you hadn’t been watching every movement of his body with open, shameless curiosity.

Your eyes traced the path of sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

Nash noticed.

Of course he did.

He hit the bag again. Harder this time. The chain rattled softly above it.

“I’m thirty-two years old,” he growled, words tight between breaths. Another punch. Thud. “Seven years older than you.”

Your lips twitched.

“You’re not my type.”

The bag swung wider now under the force of his hits, the dull impacts echoing through the room. Each strike looked sharper than the last, like he was trying to punch the irritation out of the air.

Unfortunately for him, you were still standing there.

And still staring.

Your gaze dragged slowly over his back when he shifted his stance, the movement of muscle beneath his shirt impossible to ignore. His irritation was doing absolutely nothing to make him less attractive. If anything, the tension in his jaw and the way his brows furrowed only made the whole thing worse.

Or better.

Depending on who you asked.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly aware you were still there, still watching, still being you. His shoulders tightened before he landed another series of punches against the bag, faster now, more aggressive.

“It’s been—what?” he muttered between hits. Thud. Thud. “Four months?”

He stepped back just enough to glare over his shoulder at you.

“Four months since you started pestering me.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, dark and tired and very aware of the effect he apparently had on you.

“Aren’t you getting tired?”

There was a beat of silence after the question.

The bag continued to sway gently between you both, creaking softly on its chain. Nash turned back toward it again, clearly deciding ignoring you was the safer option, and drove his fist into it once more with enough force to make the entire thing shudder.

But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased.

Not even a little.

And somehow, that made the room feel even warmer.

Like the air itself was thick with something unspoken — irritation on his side, stubborn amusement on yours — stretching tighter with every second you remained there watching him.

And you weren’t leaving.