Page 27 of About to Fall

He was shirtless—because of course he was—doing pull-ups with methodical intensity. Shoulders broader than a skater's had any right to be. Muscles moving under his skin. Tattoos rippling with each rep. A line of sweat tracked down his chest and disappeared into his waistband.

I was staring. I needed to stop staring.

I turned back to my resistance bands and attacked my jump drills with more force than necessary. Box jump, land, reset. Box jump, land, reset. The logic had been simple: total concentration was easier when the alternative was watching Adrian do pull-ups shirtless.

In practice, I could hear every exhale. Every time he moved to a new station. Every clank of the bar. Music leaked from his headphones—something with heavy bass. He hadn't looked at me once since I walked in. He was really committed.

On the twelfth rep of a banded single leg squat jump, my calf muscle seized.

The pain hit like a blade driven deep into the meat of my leg—white hot, every fibre of the muscle clamping down at once. I collapsed down on the mat with a strangled curse, both hands flying to my calf. I couldn't straighten my leg. Couldn't breathe past it. The cramp radiated up toward my knee and down into my heel in pulsing waves, each one wringing a fresh gasp out of me as I curled around it on the mat.

Five days of avoidance and he was at my side in five seconds.

“Don't move.”

Adrian dropped to his knees beside me before I could say I was fine. His hands were on my calf before I could say I didn't need help. Close enough to smell—chalk and sweat and something warm underneath, sweet and herbal. His fingers pressed into the seized muscle with confidence.

My heart rate spiked. Not from the pain.

“Breathe, Nicky. You're holding your breath.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're on the floor.”

“I'm aware.”

“Then stop arguing and let me fix it.”

His thumbs dug into the knot and I whimpered pathetically, it felt good and painful at the same time. His other hand wrapped around my ankle—warm, firm, rings cool against my skin—and pushed my toes toward my shin.

“Slowly. Don't fight it.”

I was fighting it. Not the stretch—him. The whiplash of going from nothing to his hands on my body. Heat crawled up the back of my neck, spreading across my skin in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

“Relax for me, Nicky.” His voice was lower. Soothing. His thumb moved in slow circles and the muscle began to release. “There you go.”

The cramp was unwinding but his hands didn't move. Adrian Zhao was kneeling on the floor with my leg in his lap, fingers wrapped around my calf, face close enough that I could see the individual lashes framing those dark eyes. Pink hair stuck to his temples. Lip rings catching the light.

Goosebumps broke out along my arms despite the warmth of the gym.

“Better?” he asked.

His thumb was still moving. Small circles. Slow. The cramp had released but he hadn’t stopped touching me. Neither of us acknowledged it.

“Better,” I said. My voice cracked embarrassingly. “Thank you.”

He looked at me. Not a casual glance—a lingering look. Starting at my eyes and holding there while his hand stayed on my calf and his thumb kept drawing circles against muscle that no longer needed attention. The gym was empty. The lights hummed. I could hear his breathing—steady but not quite even.

A bead of sweat slid down my temple. I was suddenly, acutely aware of how flushed I must look. Something shifted in his expression. The careful avoidance cracking. That gleam returning.

“You push too hard,” he chastized softly.

“Rich, coming from you.”

“I train smart. You push like you're punishing yourself.” His hand slid down—slowly, deliberately—along my calf to my ankle. Stayed there. “There's a difference.”

“I don't need a lecture on training methodology.”