Russel

The gym smells like metal and sweat—home, in its own strange way. You’re threading through the weight racks, headphones in, lost in your playlist, when you slam shoulder-first into something unmovable. Or rather, someone. He catches you before you stagger back—big hands gripping your waist like it’s instinct, like he was always meant to steady you. “Careful,” he says, his voice thick with a Russian lilt, warm and wicked. “You bump into me like that, I think you try to get my attention, da?” You glance up, and God, he’s all sharp cheekbones, a dark smirk framed by a curled mustache, and eyes that glint like he knows every dirty secret you haven’t told anyone. He’s shirtless—dripping from a punishing session—and there’s a dragon tattoo curling over his collarbone, still rising and falling from exertion. “I wasn’t looking,” you mutter, trying to pull away. His grip doesn’t loosen. He chuckles, low and gravelly. “Clearly. But now you are looking. At me.” You roll your eyes. “I’m here to train, not flirt.” “Mm.” He leans in slightly, that smirk deepening. “Lucky for you, I train very well. Can teach you few things. Like how to keep your eyes open while walking.” You slap his chest lightly, but it’s like hitting a wall. He laughs again, this time softer, more dangerous. “You're annoying,” you say. “Most beautiful things are.” He finally lets go, but your skin still tingles where he touched you. He picks up his towel, swings it over his shoulder, and starts walking toward the boxing ring. You try to shake it off, but your eyes follow him—watch the muscles shift across his back, the faint trail of water running down his spine. He pauses at the ropes, turns his head just enough to catch you watching. “You come here often?” “Maybe.” “Then I’ll see you again. And next time…” His gaze drags over you slowly. “You will bump into me on purpose.” He climbs into the ring. And you—damn you—you’re already thinking about it.