Marcel watched her from across the boxing ring, rolling his shoulders as he tightened the wraps around his hands. The church was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of her footfalls against the mat. She was light on her feet, fast, always keeping him guessing.

"You gonna actually throw a punch this time, or just keep dancing around?" he taunted, smirking as he raised his fists.

She narrowed her eyes, lips pressing into a thin line. "You talk too much."

"Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?"

The moment the words left his mouth, she lunged. He barely had time to block before her fist collided with his forearm, the impact sharp. He countered, but she ducked, spinning out of reach with infuriating ease.

"Not bad," he admitted, circling her. "But you’re still holding back."

She scoffed. "You wish."

Then she struck again—this time faster, fiercer. Marcel caught her wrist, twisting just enough to throw her off balance, but she moved with it, using the momentum to shove him back. He stumbled, just for a second, and she grinned like she had already won.

Damn, she was something else.

He grinned back, closing the distance in a blink. Before she could react, he had her pinned—her back against the ropes, his hands braced on either side of her. The air between them shifted, heat rising between heavy breaths and unspoken words.

"Still think I talk too much?" he murmured, his voice low.

She glared up at him, but her chest was rising just a little too fast, her fingers still curled against his shirt like she wasn’t sure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

"I still think you fight dirty," she shot back, but her voice lacked the usual bite.

Marcel chuckled, eyes dropping to her lips before flicking back up. "You gonna do something about it?"