24. Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Lina
As we finish our cool down, the gym is eerily quiet.
No treadmills humming. No weights clanking. Only the buzz of overhead lights and the soft echo of our breathing as we stretch through cooldowns. My body is relaxed in the way only a good workout can manage—sore, tired, but steadier than when I walked in.
I roll my shoulders and glance at Alex.
He’s stretching with an ease that comes from long familiarity with his body. Calm. Grounded—always aware. His jaw is firm and defined, and when he raises his gaze, his eyes hold a subtle intensity that captivates me.
“Hey,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Hey.”
I hesitate but decide not to overthink it. “You mentioned Krav Maga last night.”
His brow lifts slightly. “I did.”
“Would you show me something?” I gesture vaguely between us. “Something simple. Like what to do if someone grabs you.”
He studies me for a moment—not suspicious, careful. “Here?”
“Why not? We’re alone.” I give a small shrug. “I need the practice.”
He exhales. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m warmed up,” I say lightly. “And I promise to complain if you do.”
That earns a faint smile. “Reassuring.”
He steps closer, closing the space, making my body hyper-aware of the difference between us.
Alex is at least a foot taller than me. Broad shoulders, solid chest, all long lines and contained strength. Standing next to him, I appear small—but not diminished. Like my curves make sense next to him.
Most men I’ve dated hate that I’m not tiny or delicate—a hundred pounds soaking wet.
Alex doesn’t look at me like I take up too much space—like my 145-pound body is too much.
“Basic wrist grab,” he says, positioning himself before me. “Common. Effective to counter if you don’t panic.”
“Not my strong suit,” I mutter.
“We’ll work on that.”
He takes my wrist—firm but controlled. His hand is large, masculine, spanning me easily.
“First rule,” he says, “don’t fight the grip. You move with it.”
He guides my arm, angling it so, his other hand steady at my elbow. Professional.
And still—hot.
“Well,” I murmur, adjusting my grip, “this is already more intimate than my last date.”
He stills. Then a huff of laughter escapes him. “Focus.”
“I am focusing,” I say innocently. “On an obscenely tall, muscular man hovering over me.”
His mouth twitches. “Quite the distraction.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” I say smiling.
He moves in behind me to correct my positioning, and the first thing my body registers isn’t his voice—it’s how completely he eclipses me. There’s no way I could take someone his size down.
I follow his instructions, stepping in, instead of back, twisting the way he tells me.
The grip breaks cleanly.
I blink. “Oh.”
“There you go,” he says, clearly impressed. “Again.”
We repeat it. And again.
Each time smoother. Each time closer.
His hand slides briefly to my lower back as he corrects me, and when he leans down to speak near my ear, my traitorous brain supplies an image I hadn’t summoned—how easily he could lift me, pin me, hold me steady without effort.
The idea lands hot and immediate, straight down between my legs.
“So,” he says casually, like my pulse hasn’t skyrocketed, “this last date of yours. Successful?”
I glance back at him over my shoulder. “If you measure success by being told I’m not very petite, then wildly.”
He stills.
“Someone actually told you that?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm. Apparently, the 90s thin is still in, and I don’t fit that model.” I shrug. “He suggested I’d be ‘perfect’ if I lost a few pounds.”
Alex’s jaw tightens—not angry, but unmistakably displeased.
“Sounds like an insecure dick to me,” he says simply.
I smile despite myself. “You don’t have to—“
“I’m not sparing your feelings,” he interrupts. “You have beautiful curves. They suit you. Anyone who makes you feel otherwise doesn’t deserve to touch you.”
Something warm and unfamiliar lingers. And the word “touch” comes so freely from his mouth that it makes me think about what it would be like for him to touch me. To tease and tantalize. To provoke something feverish.
He steps in behind me to adjust my stance, hands briefly at my hips—grounding, devastatingly respectful.
“Weight forward,” he murmurs. “Good. Now—twist.”
I do and land a perfect release.
“There you go,” he says. “You’re learning fast.”
“I’m highly motivated.”
“I noticed.”
I turn slightly, catching his gaze. “So…are you single?”
The question hangs between us.
“Yes,” he answers after a beat.
“When was your last date?”
“Been a while,” he quickly replies.
“Too busy?” I tease.
“Something like that.”
I nod my head slightly. “Busy enough to avoid dating entirely…or busy enough to keep things uncomplicated?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “You asking if I have friends-with-benefits?”
I shrug, aiming for casual. “Just gathering intel.”
He doesn’t answer but doesn’t deny it either.
And to my surprise, something tightens in my gut.
Envy? Surely not jealousy. Huh.
I turn back toward the mat and focus on the moves.
“Good. “ You’re doing really well,” he says.
He stands, feet planted apart as if he’s braced for impact, arms folded across his chest. Watching me with that assessing calm, like I’m a problem he already knows how to solve.
His jaw is set, clean and strong. A few strands of dark hair have fallen loose over his forehead, messier now than when we started, and the contrast—control everywhere else, chaos right there—does something useless to my pulse.
“So is that Krav Maga Grand Master approval or Alex approval?”
“Yes,” he replies.
I huff a laugh, the sound echoing off the walls, partly because it’s funny and partly because laughing keeps me from thinking about how easily he could pin me if he wanted to—and how much I don’t feel afraid of that fact—how much I might really enjoy it.
Where’s the joking banter I’m looking for?
“You flirt like you fight. So serious.” I tease.
“I don’t flirt,” he says.
“Oh, I see, you’re so hot the girls just come running before you have to lift a finger?” I ask.
“So you think I’m hot?” he asks, smirking in that sexy way.
“Liar, you do flirt,” I declare.
He chuckles. Then he steps behind me, close to where my body registers him before my brain does. His chest is a solid presence at my back, broad and steady.
I like feeling smaller like this. Anchored.
“If someone comes from behind,” he says, voice deep and calm, “you don’t freeze. You drop your weight. You strike vulnerable points. You create space.”
The words are practical and tactical. My thoughts are not.
“Space seems…optional,” I tease lightly, even as my pulse jumps, because his breath brushes by my ear and my traitorous brain keeps supplying images that are completely uninvited.
“For survival,” he corrects. “For everything else…” He trails off.
That’s when I turn in his arms.
I close myself in, and the air between us is charged, alive. His eyes are darker up close, unreadable. His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s locking something down instead of letting it loose.
“Everything else?” I ask, repeating him.
He scrutinizes me, calculating the situation. With unmistakable control, he says, “We stop here.”
I swallow, looking him up and down. “Probably wise.”
But neither of us moves right away.
The moment stretches—warmth, breath, awareness humming under the surface. I can see the faint tension in his shoulders, the way restraint isn’t effortless for him either. That somehow makes it worse, or better. Both.
“Same time tomorrow?” I ask, teasing, because teasing seems safer than admitting how aware I am of him.
His smile is slow. Controlled. “We’ll see if you survive tonight’s tenderness first.”
“I’m confident,” I admit.
“I’m experienced,” he counters.
I grin. “I like that in a teacher.” The flirting is fully on display tonight.
His gaze lingers—questionable intent. Then he steps back, giving us both space before the moment tips into something neither of us is ready to name.
But the pull remains. Undeniably so.
I duck into the locker room to grab my things, moving slower than I need to, letting my pulse drop back into something resembling normal. When I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and step back out, the place is quiet and empty.
Alex is waiting near the entrance, leaning against a pillar.
“I was thinking,” he says, casual enough to pretend it’s an afterthought, “I should probably make sure you get to your car okay.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
He casts his eyes on me. “I know. Humor me.”
I sigh, already smiling.
“Fine.” I shift the strap of my gym bag higher on my shoulder.
We step outside together, the night air cooler than before, and still, the parking lot is empty. Our footsteps echo softly, and my legs are already registering complaints they plan to escalate by morning.
I’m mid-thought—something about how quiet it is—when the weight on my shoulder suddenly disappears.
“What the…”
I turn in time to see my bag swinging casually from my shoulder to Alex’s hand.
He simply takes it, making the gesture feel so natural I barely register it.
“Hey,” I protest automatically, reaching for it. “I’ve got it.”
He steps out of reach, easy at that, because I’m a shrimp next to him.
A slow smirk tugs at his mouth. “I know.”
Something about that smirk—lazy, confident, unapologetic—does something deeply inconvenient to my pulse.
“I can carry my own bag,” I add, because apparently dignity is important.
“I’m sure you can,” he says easily. “But I already have it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely.” He glances around the parking lot, surveying threats from what it looks like.
“You make it seem like someone might jump out and get us in the parking lot.” I joke.
“You never know,” he says, smiling in return.
He walks beside me, trying to match my slow pace.
“Tomorrow’s going to be worse,” he says.
I cast a look at him. “I suppose day two always is.”
He nods like we’re sharing a sacred truth. “Every time.”
“Why do we do this to ourselves? Work out knowing we won’t be able to move the next day?” I moan.
“Because it makes us feel capable,” he says. “And slightly invincible. Until we try to stand up.”
I laugh as we reach my car.
Before I can even reach for the handle, Alex steps forward and opens the door for me.
I pause and gaze up at him.
He doesn’t make a thing of it. Doesn’t rush me. He waits patiently as ever, holding the door open.
“Thank you,” I say, softer than I mean to.
He dips his head slightly. “Anytime.”
I steady my nerves for a moment before I back-step what I’m about to say.
“I’m not working tomorrow,” I quickly say. “The staff basically staged an intervention before closing and made it clear I’m to take the day off.”
“Good,” he says. “I think that’s a great idea.”
“I wasn’t planning to listen but...”
“Of course not.” He smiles.
I offer a smile in return and delay long enough to grasp the weight of what I’m about to ask—and convince myself not to retreat from it.
“I told myself I wouldn’t do this again but,” I admit, muttering, staring up at him. “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow evening?”
The words hang there between us. He’s not a rebound. I’m not using him as a distraction.
Alex’s brow lifts slightly. Curiosity behind his eyes.
“Do this again?” he asks lightly. “I’m under the impression that I should be offended…or at least worried.”
I let out a soft huff of a laugh. “Oh, relax. I meant that I don’t normally lower my defenses to ask men out anymore. Or lower the imaginary walls. Wow, that sounded terrible out loud.”
“In that case, I’m honored.” He says teasingly.
I glanced at him. “Careful. Don’t get cocky.”
He smiles, but his expression changes next—subtle, thoughtful.
“I’m not trying to pressure you if you aren’t ready for something like a…date,” he says carefully. “I want to avoid assuming I understand how you process things.”
“I get I tend to say I’m okay, a lot,” I respond.
“I’m not the sort of woman who folds or disappears for days.
I don’t wallow. I don’t numb myself with a gallon of ice cream.
” I hesitate, choosing the words that seem true.
“I get back up. I always have. I handle last night as though it were a normal night—because if I don’t, it becomes a thing that controls me. ”
He holds my gaze, steady and respectful. “I won’t pressure you to have any emotions you’re not prepared to have,” he says. “But I also won’t mistake your composure for fragility. I see the difference in you.”
And somehow, being seen that clearly—without being questioned or corrected—provides its own kind of safety.
His mouth curves into a smile that isn’t guarded. “I’d love to have dinner with you,” he says.
Relief spreads warm in my chest.
“You know,” he elaborates, shifting his head a little, “instead of leaving the house to go out…what are your thoughts on me making dinner for you?”
I blink. “You cook?”
“I do,” he says, faintly amused. “And I’ve been told I’m decent at it.”
“Decent by whose standards?” I ask.
“People who lived to give feedback.”
I laugh. “That sounds…really nice.”
“Only if you’re up for it.”
“I am.” I smile.
“Do you mind cooking at my place? Staying in for a meal sounds perfect. I’m not really up for crowds or real clothes, for that matter.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “A strong argument.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Your place. Comfortable and casual. That works for me.”
No hesitation, only easy acceptance.
“Tomorrow evening?” he asks.
“Tomorrow evening,” I confirm.
We exchange a glance—silent, firm, unhurried.
“Text me a time,” he says.
“I will,” I say.
He waits until I’m fully inside before he shuts the door. Once it’s locked, he heads back to his car. I sit there a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel, letting the reality of our exchange settle in.
Dinner. At my house. Tomorrow. A real date. And oddly, that thought doesn’t scare me.