30. Pink Ribbon.
We are now in the gym. At seven in the freaking morning with no one but just us.
I still don't get it. Why does he even come to this gym when he already has a huge one at his penthouse? treadmills with touchscreens, racks organized by height, a mirror wall that practically sparkles, and a fridge that dispenses chill water?
where he can grunt dramatically and lift scary weights without judgment? One that doesn't require me to be up before the sun?
But nooo. Apparently that gym is currently occupied by my ballet barre, which he installed. So now, we're here.
"Can't believe you kicked yourself out of your own gym." I mutter under my breath, stretching my arms across my chest as he silently unwraps the hand tape. I squint at him from the mat.
He smirks, doesn't even look at me. "I didn't kick myself out. I made a space for you. There's a difference."
"Oh, how generous," I roll my eyes "Such a sacrifice."
He finally glances at me, head tilted, like he's barely holding back a grin. "I know. Should've gotten a medal for it."
I let out a dramatic sigh. "The world must honor your noble act of moving a few weights for my barre."
He walks over, finishing the last bit of tape around his knuckles. "You say that like I didn't have to kick a punching bag out of its rightful home."
"Aww, did it cry?"
His mouth twitches. "Nearly."
I shake my head, smiling despite myself, "We could've done this back home. In your pastel-pink kingdom."
His eyes narrow. "It's not pastel-pink. It's temporary."
As if I'm letting him change it.
"Come on, let's spar." he says suddenly, voice calm, like he's asking me to go for a walk or something equally casual and not try to beat him up.
"Spar?" I repeat, scandalized. "I can't!"
"Sure you can. You've headbutted me and even punched my jaw." he says smoothly, completely unbothered like that's the most romantic thing I've ever done.
I open my mouth to protest but then shut it.
Right, but in my defense, the headbutt was because he was hovering over me and the punch? That was two times! He was being a jerk.
My mouth twitches, a little bit horrified, a little bit smug.
He raises a brow, clearly amused at my expression. "So? You in, Swan?"
I glance at his hands—taped up, ready. Then at his eyes- way too confident. "Do I get to hit you again?"
He grins. "Only if you can catch me." He says walking to the ring.
I step into the ring, the ropes cool against my arms as I duck under and stand on the mat. The floor feels different in here. Like it holds history. Like it remembers every fall, every bruise, every hit.
Xavier is already inside, circling slowly, his tank clinging to him in that way that should honestly be illegal. His hands are wrapped, his jaw tight, and there's a glint in his eyes that is not comforting.
"I don't know how to do this." I murmur, heart thudding as I lift my fists awkwardly.
Nostlagia.
"You don't have to," he says, walking toward me. "I'll show you."
He stops right in front of me. His hand reaches out and wraps lightly around my wrist, guiding it up and then the other.
"Keep your elbows in." he mutters, low. His breath fans across my cheek and I try not to shiver.
His fingers brush against my arm, nudging it in place.
"Like this." he says, stepping even closer.
There is no room now. Just the sound of the AC, the muted buzz of the lights overhead, and his hand wrapping around mine—gentle, but firm.
"Now your stance," he says, voice calm, almost too calm. His leg nudges mine apart, positioning my feet. His hand presses lightly on my hip.
"You okay?" he asks, finally stepping back just a little
I nod too fast. "Yep, cool! Totally ready to die."
He smirks. "Try not to. I like your eyes."
I roll my eyes hard, but smile softly.
"Alright, Swan." he says, lifting his hands. "Let's see what you've got."
I throw the first punch.
It's clumsy. Too wide. He dodges with a bored tilt of his head and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "That was cute." Xavier mutters, and it is not a compliment.
I glare and step in again, aiming for his side. He blocks it easily, the back of his forearm meeting mine with a light thud.
And just like that, the mood shifts.
His eyes narrow—playful, but focused. I don't think he's going to hold back this time.
He feints left, and I fall for it, stepping to block— But he's already behind me.
"What the hell-"
His arms go around my waist just for a second as he spins me gently back to face him. My breath catches. "Footwork, Swan," he murmurs. "You forget your feet exist when I'm near?"
I'm a ballerina and my whole life depends on my feet, but I? I actually forget how to make my feet work. It's as if he'd always be always here to catch me, be with me and by my side. I don't know how and why but he makes me feel safe when I should be least of his concerns.
I swing again, if only to wipe that smirk off his face.
This time he catches my wrist midair.
One hand on my wrist, the other presses lightly on my shoulder, forcing me to stagger back. We're chest to chest. I could count his lashes if I wanted to.
Which I do not.
"You're distracted." he says.
"You're distracting," I mutter back.
That makes him grin.
I shove him off, duck low, and finally land a punch to his abdomen—not hard, but satisfying. He lets out a dramatic oof. "Wow. Violent."
I grin, "That's for the smugness."
"Smug?" he echoes. "Sweetheart, this is me being nice."
And then he lunges.
Our arms lock briefly, hands gripping, shoulders pushing. I try not to panic when his hand finds my waist again to twist me into a new stance. My back grazes the ropes, he's right in front of me. One hand braced next to my waist.
We're both panting and his forehead almost touches mine. "I win." he says, voice low.
I raise an eyebrow. "How? I'm still standing." The tease tastes like defiance and adrenaline.
He smiles, slow and dangerous. "Well, I was just thinking about how pretty your lips look when you're mad at me." His eyes drop to my mouth.
"That's what you're thinking about?" I shoot back.
"Oh, sweetheart," he answers "that's only the beginning." His hand at my waist is firm, his other fingers hook at the back of my neck, guiding my face.
He looks like he might close the space between us. He looks like he wants to.
My brain supplies a dozen sane exits. My body refuses every one.
He looks as if he might kiss me.
So I do something- exactly the kind of crazy I'm proud of but later I regret.
I clamp my teeth down on his shoulder.
I bite him right on the shoulder.
He's in a tank, and my teeth definitely sink in. "What the hell?" he jerks back with a sharp laugh, stumbling slightly. "Did you just bite me?"
"I panicked!" I defend, a little too quickly.
"You bit me, Amara!"
"Would you prefer a headbutt?" I cross my arms, chin tilted.
He looks at me, deadpan, then at his shoulder. Then at me again and grins. "I think I deserved that," he says, still laughing under his breath. "That's definitely going to bruise."
"I hope it does." I say with mock sweetness.
"You don't have to mark me when I'm already yours, Swan." he says.
Excuse me?
"What!?" I blink, nearly tripping over my own foot. "What did you just say?"
He shrugs, all cool and composed, "I'm already yours." he repeats, like it's nothing. Like it's not the verbal equivalent of a punch to the stomach and a kiss to the soul.
My jaw drops. "Are you- are you okay?"
"Perfectly," he says, then taps his shoulder. "Just sore though."
──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────
He's standing by the mirror, shaking that ridiculous bottle of his like it's some holy potion, and then chugging it like a man on a mission. A very handsome mission, apparently.
His hair's a bit damp, curling near the nape of his neck. His biceps flex with every sip and that tank top should be illegal. Don't even get me started on his back—broad, solid, unfair. I bet I could tie a ribbon around it, just to claim him as mine.
And then, splat!
The protein shake spills right down his chest. A thick stripe of vanilla protein sludges down past shirt. Its completely soaked now.
"Wow," I say slowly, eyes wide. "That was impressive?"
He looks down and then at me. "It slipped."
"I saw," I say, trying not to laugh. "It was beautiful."
He groans, grabbing a towel. "This is your fault."
"My fault?!" I gasp. "You spilled your protein shake on yourself! How is that my fault?!"
"You were staring."
Whoops, got caught.
"I wasn't!" I begin, my voice wobbling with denial, but I can already feel the heat creeping up my neck. My ears are burning. My face must be giving away everything.
Oh god, I was staring at his arms, his shoulders, that jawline that could cut glass and that back.
Then he removes his tank. Just yanks it off in one go. His muscles flex. The towel follows, dragged slowly across his chest, over those ridiculously defined abs like a personal attack on my sanity.
Oh yes.
Oh no.
My gaze snaps to the wall clock.
Oh crap. The other ladies from the self defense- they'll start showing up any minute now—
And this idiot is still standing there, shirtless, like it's the most normal thing in the world. Golden skin. Ridiculous abs. That white towel slung over his shoulder.
"I'm going to change." he says.
I hear voices outside the door. They're gonna be here any second.
"No!" Without thinking I launch myself at him, arms wrapping around his bare torso, my face squished somewhere between his chest and shoulder as I try to block the view.
Even though, realistically, my five-foot-nothing frame isn't hiding anything.
"Amara?" he says, surprised. His hands hover awkwardly in the air for a second before he slowly lets them settle on my waist. "What... exactly are you doing?"
"Hiding you," I mutter into his skin. "Obviously."
I know he's a boxer—his body is part of the job description. It's meant to be seen, shown, flexed, admired under stadium lights and cameras and whatever. But not now and definitely not here.
I hug him tighter.
He's mine.
This is my view. My golden-skinned, broad-backed, unfairly sculpted chaos of a man. And I will not let him stand there like a walking thirst trap for every gym girl who walks through that door.
I mean, seriously? what if they already have boyfriends? Be loyal. Close your eyes. Go home. Look away.
Because apparently decency just dies when there's a man with golden skin and a perfect V-line!
"I wasn't aware I needed protection, Swan."
"You don't," I mutter, "they do."
The door swings open wider and voices filter in—light giggles, half-whispers.
"Oh my god, is that Xavier Hayes?"
"Shut up, he's so hot!"
"I told you he trains here, look at his arms!"
I feel him shift slightly beneath me. His gaze flicks past my shoulder, to the sound. Of course he's looking.
I grab his jaw and make him face me. "Don't look at them," I whisper, glaring up at him. "Look at me, you idiot."
His brows lift. Then his eyes lock onto mine. The corner of his mouth tugs into the faintest smirk.
"Okay," he says, low and rough, like I've just handed him something sacred. "I'm looking."
"Can i tie a ribbon around your bicep?" I ask loudly so that the girls could hear.
Xavier leans down a little, voice brushing the shell of my ear like a secret. "You wanna tie a ribbon around my bicep, Swan?" he murmurs, the word laced with amusement and something hotter. "Go ahead. I'll flex for you."
I just stare up at him, "Pink one with sparkles."
He chuckles, biting back a grin. "Only if you're the one tying it."