Flickering lamplight threw dancing shadows across the safehouse's rough walls. Rain lashed the windows, a reflection of the storm brewing within you. You were breathing hard, muscles still tight from the brutal training. Soap, equally winded, leaned against the wall, sweat darkening his hair. His chest heaved beneath his damp shirt.

For hours, you'd pushed each other, every parry and strike a charged exchange of power and unspoken tension. The air crackled, thick with a heat beyond exertion. Your gazes locked, a spark igniting between you.

He pushed off the wall, his heavy boots on the wooden floor as he approached. You felt his radiating heat, smelled gunpowder and something uniquely him – earthy and masculine. A slow smile, hinting at trouble, curled his lip.

"You're looking flushed, lass," he murmured, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down your spine. He raised a hand, his calloused fingers tracing your jaw, the touch sending jolts. His hand moved down, lingering on your pulse point, his thumb circling slowly. A groan escaped your lips, lost in the drumming rain. He stepped closer, bodies almost touching.

"We could always… 'cool down'..." Soap whispered, his breath warm against your ear. His dark eyes held a challenge, an invitation. His hand grazed your waistband, sending another wave of heat. Desire thrummed between you.

He lowered his head, lips a hair's breadth from yours, his voice a husky plea, "What do you say? Are we just letting the rain be the only thing wet tonight?"