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“Cruz,” I whisper.

“I know. I know.” He tucks himself away.

I straighten my sports bra, blot my face with the inside of my shirt collar, and rake my ponytail tight. My cheeks are on fire. There’s no fixing that. He finger-combs his hair, rolls his shoulders, and shakes himself like a dog coming out of a lake.

“How do I look?” he breathes.

“Like you just did exactly what you just did,” I deadpan.

“Perfect. You too.”

“Cruz—”

Footsteps.

Heavy ones. Male. Coming down the back hallway.

We go statue-still. His eyes lock on mine, wide, and my pulse hammers so loud I’m convinced it’s audible through the door. The footsteps get closer. Closer.

They pass. Keep going. Fade toward the locker rooms.

Cruz exhales through pursed lips, long and slow. I sag against the shelf.

“Okay.” He eases the door open an inch and puts his eye to the gap. “Clear.”

“You first. Left,” I state.

“I know the drill, sweetheart.” He pauses with his hand on the door. “For the record?—”

“Go.”

He slips out and turns left toward the main floor, unhurried, hands loose, every inch the strength coach heading back to work. The door clicks shut behind him.

I count. Thirty seconds. My legs still don’t fully believe in themselves, and I can feel the wet warmth spreading along my inner thigh with every shift of weight, hidden under black leggings butthere, undeniable evidence I’m going to carry across that gym floor in front of everyone, smelling like his cum.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

I grab a fresh box of hand wraps off the shelf, which was the entire reason I came in here, and step out, turning right toward the bathrooms like that was always the plan. In the mirror, I look flushed and bright-eyed, which could be cardio. I clean up after Cruz and then splash cold water on my face, giving it another few minutes.

When I walk back onto the floor, the gym hasn’t changed. Fighters drilling, bags swinging, Marco calling out corrections in Spanglish. Nobody looks at me twice. Nobody knows that under these leggings, Cruz’s cum is still dripping down my thigh. That ten minutes ago I had Cruz’s hand jammed against my mouth ina supply closet while the whole world trained on the other side of a door with no lock.

My face heats all over again. Lower than my face, everything clenches.

I find a bench in the corner and start wrapping my hands. The ritual usually settles me. The thumb loop, around the wrist, up over the knuckles, the same pattern years deep in my muscle memory. Today my fingers shake on the second pass and I have to start over.

This was reckless. This was the kind of reckless that ends careers, gets licenses pulled, hands the athletic commission everything they’ve been waiting for. Eli would have an aneurysm. Eli can never know. Eli is absolutely going to know, because Cruz has never kept a secret to save his life.

I finish the left hand and glance up.

Across the gym, Cruz is spotting Reese on a squat. He senses me looking and his eyes find mine over the top of the rack.

He grins, slow and shameless, then turns back to his lifter like nothing in the world is wrong.

I focus on my right hand and wrap it tight, biting the inside of my cheek against a smile I can’t afford to wear in public.

Worth it. God help us both, completely worth it.

And we’re going to do it again.