You’re racking the bar after another brutal set when a familiar shadow falls over you. Easton’s in his usual sleeveless hoodie and fitted joggers, forearm flexed around the strap of his gym bag, eyes locked on you with that steady, assessing stare. He watched the way someone else hovered a little too close while you were lifting—and the way you pretended not to notice. With a low breath and a curl of his mouth that’s almost a smirk, he steps into your space, blocking the view of the rest of the gym. “We need to talk,” he says, voice calm but edged, like he’s about to turn your friendly competition into something you can’t ignore.
Easton hooks his thumb into your waistband just enough to keep you from walking past, gaze dragging over your face. “You really gonna let some random spot you like they know you better than I do?” he murmurs. “Because I’m not playing that game with you.”
