The gym was dark in the way only empty buildings got, a low fluorescent hum still leaking through dead fixtures and settling into the rubber smell of the floor. The treadmill against the far wall sat warped and silent, its belt faintly warm from a motor that had given up an hour ago. In the corner, the squat rack held a bar that had been bent into a permanent bow, steel remembering too many loads it was never rated to carry.
Amber lay flat on her back between the racks, arms loose, one knee bent, chest rising and falling in slow, satisfied pulls of air. Her body heat pressed into the rubber beneath her, warmth bleeding outward in a way the room couldn't match, and she smirked at the ceiling without a reason she cared to name.
Finally.
Her head felt wrong without the noise, like something had been unplugged that usually ran too loud to notice. Thoughts didn't stack or collide. They just… didn't.
Head's quiet. Weird.
She let the quiet sit there, turning it over without touching it too much, like it might break if she pressed. The bent bar sat in her peripheral vision, the treadmill dead across the room, the small evidence of what she'd done scattered and already unimportant.
Haven't had a proper one in weeks.
The thought landed clean and stayed.
That's probably it.
Her lips twitched, the smirk sharpening into something a little meaner as she stared up into the dark.
Anissa's buried in her little seduction project.
Abi keeps making those eyes.
She rolled her head slightly, like she could physically shake the thought loose.
And I'm what, moral support?
Her attention slid, easy, to the mission without her asking it to. Adam's face came up the way it always did lately, uninvited and oddly static, like something waiting for a punchline.
Poor bastard thinks we're his friends.
She laughed. It came out quiet but real, echoing just enough in the empty room to sound like it didn't belong there.
That's objectively hilarious.
The laugh faded into her breathing, and for a second the quiet stretched again, thinner this time.
...would've been more fun if mom just let me tell him.
At least then he'd fight back.
The thought lingered longer than the others. It didn't get filed. It didn't move on.
Then—
Him again.
The smell hit first, threading under the rubber and metal, familiar in a way that annoyed her instantly. Her body didn't move, but the stillness shifted, tightening without tension, like a line being pulled just enough to notice.
The key scraped into the lock. The door opened. Light snapped on.
It burned for exactly a second. Her eyes narrowed, watered once, then cleared, the room flattening back into sharp edges and clean lines without her blinking it away.
"I liked it better off," she said, voice rough from breathing and not bothering to lift her head.
Bryce didn't answer that. He stepped inside like the space wasn't his problem to justify, the light humming above him as he closed the door behind him and moved toward the equipment.
Amber pushed up onto her elbows, watching him without hiding it. "What, your weak human eyes can't tell your feet from your hands in the dark?"
He set the pin on the cable stack, tested it once. No reaction.
"You should come back later," she went on, rolling onto her side and then sitting up, slow and loose. "Or earlier. Or never. Plenty of options."
He glanced at her then, brief, more acknowledgment than attention. "How do you even have a key?"
Amber grinned, teeth flashing. "Threatened a guard until he handed it over. What was he gonna do, kill me?"
Bryce exhaled through his nose, something close to a sigh, and went back to adjusting the bench.
This guy.
She watched him for a second longer than she needed to, irritation sharpening at the edges of something she couldn't quite name.
Still nothing.
Not pretending. Actually doesn't care.
Weird.
"I'm not really here to exercise," he said, like he was finishing a thought she hadn't asked for. "Just a few chest sets. Helps me sleep."
He lay back on the bench and reached for the bar.
Amber stood, rolling her shoulders once, her body already cooling into that steady, contained heat she carried everywhere. She moved without rushing, circling him, steps light against the rubber as she came closer, then closer still, until the distance between them stopped being dismissible.
"What's your problem?" she asked, tilting her head down at him. "You keep acting like I'm not here. It's starting to feel personal."
He looked up at her properly this time, eyes steady, measuring in a way that didn't feel like flinching or posturing.
"Spot me."
...huh.
The word didn't come out. It sat in her head, unexpected and sharp enough to cut through the annoyance.
A grin spread slow across her face, something bright and interested slipping in under the irritation. "Sure," she said, stepping to the head of the bench. "Wouldn't want you dropping it on your face. That'd be tragic."
He didn't respond. He lifted the bar, arms steady as he brought it down and pressed.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The fifth slowed, just a fraction.
Six dipped wrong.
Amber watched his arms take the strain, watched the bar hesitate, stall, begin the slow, inevitable slide back toward his chest. She lifted her hand, hovering under the bar like she was about to help, then let it drift back, the smirk returning as she studied his face instead.
She waited.
One second.
Two.
Three.
She looked for it. The flicker. Fear, anger, panic. Anything that cracked the surface and proved there was something under it she could get to.
He met her eyes.
The bar pressed into his chest, his arms shaking in controlled resistance, breath tight but measured, and he looked at her like this was exactly what he'd expected to happen.
No accusation. No surprise.
Recognition.
That's not right.
She held it there a beat longer, because she could, because she was Amber and she took what she wanted out of a moment. Then she reached out with one hand, fingers closing around the center of the bar, and lifted it cleanly back into the rack.
The weight left him like it hadn't mattered.
He exhaled hard, chest rising, then sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders once.
"I had a feeling you'd play games," he said, voice even. "Figured you'd push it. Save me eventually."
Amber's grin sharpened. "Confident."
"Didn't make the lack of oxygen more enjoyable."
The fuck you mean you knew.
He stood, stepping back from the bench. "It's what I'd expect from someone like you."
She let out a short laugh. "Careful. Keep throwing out those little observations and even I might start believing the stereotypes."
"The stereotypes are the problem," he said, not looking at her as he adjusted the plates. "You categorize everything. Then get annoyed when other people do it back."
Her smile thinned.
"Your assumptions are why you miss actual danger," he added, like it was an afterthought. "Walks right past you."
He paused, glancing at her. "Also probably why you think Abigail shouldn't be the defacto leader, right?"
Amber's eyes narrowed a fraction.
"You're technically the oldest."
How does he know that.
"How do you know that?" she asked, voice dropping just enough to cut.
He shrugged once. "Hunch."
He turned toward the door.
Amber moved before he took a second step.
Her leg hooked behind his, sweeping clean and precise, his balance gone in a single motion. He hit the floor hard enough to sound real, not hard enough to do damage, air pushing out of his lungs in a sharp exhale.
He started to push up.
Her hand landed on his chest and pressed him back down, not forceful, just enough to make the difference clear.
She swung over him in one smooth motion and settled across his waist, weight dropping into place with intent. Her thighs bracketed his hips, heat bleeding through the thin fabric between them, not surface warmth but something deeper, constant, impossible to ignore.
Her hands pinned his wrists to the floor beside his head, grip light and absolute at the same time. He could feel the restraint in it, the choice not to tighten, the knowledge that it wouldn't take much to turn it into something that hurt.
She leaned forward slightly, adjusting her balance, and the shift brought her closer, her chest hovering just above his face, breath steady and deliberate. Her hair fell forward in neon strands, catching the fluorescent light, framing a face that softened into something almost sweet if you didn't look too long.
Her eyes glinted amber.
Her fangs showed just enough.
She smiled.
"You know," she said, voice dropping, smoothing into something slower, warmer, deliberate in a way her earlier words hadn't been. "I could crush your wrists right now if I felt like it."
Her fingers tightened just a fraction, enough for him to feel the difference.
"Or your hips," she went on, shifting her weight minutely, letting it settle more fully. "Just squeeze a little. Done."
Her breath brushed his cheek as she leaned closer, the heat of her body radiating into him from every point of contact.
"Could get your throat without even trying," she murmured, tone almost playful. "You wouldn't even have time to—"
She stopped just short of finishing it, smile widening a touch.
"Funny thing is," she added, softer, "most guys in this position wouldn't be thinking about any of that."
She didn't say what they would be thinking about. She didn't have to.
She watched his face, waiting for it.
Fear would do.
Desire would do.
Either one meant she'd landed somewhere real.
He looked up at her.
And there was something there, but it wasn't either of those.
Amber's smile flickered, just enough to notice.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't want.
It was something quieter. Something that looked past the position, past the angle, past the way she was using her body like a weapon and a distraction at the same time.
Something like pity.
Not quite. Close enough to sting.
Her expression sharpened. "Don't," she said, the word flat now, edge cutting through the softness she'd been using. "Don't look at me like that."
"I'd rather look at you under a deifferent light," he said. "You haven't given me a reason to."
Her grip didn't change. Her body didn't move.
"Give me one," he added.
Silence settled between them, heavier than the weight she'd lifted off him earlier.
Amber stared at him, waiting for the next thought to slot into place, for something sharp and easy and hers to cut through it.
Nothing came.
....
She let go.
She pushed off him and stood, the movement a little too quick, not quite smooth, her hands dropping to her sides like she needed them somewhere else.
"You're strong," she said, not looking at him directly.
He sat up, rolling his wrists once. "You're stronger."
He stood, stepping back, giving her space without making a thing out of it.
"You stereotype everything," he said, heading toward the door. "Then get annoyed when it happens to you."
She didn't answer.
"It's why you miss things," he went on, tone the same as before, easy, unforced. "Danger doesn't always look how you expect."
He reached the door, hand on the handle, then paused.
He glanced back at her.
"I think you're beautiful," he said. "And fierce."
Amber's jaw tightened a fraction, not quite a reaction she could stop.
"The only thing holding you back is you," he added. "Not my place to judge."
He opened the door a crack, the hallway light spilling in.
"Hope tomorrow's more normal."
He waited.
Amber stood there, the words landing somewhere she didn't have a quick label for, something under the noise she usually ran at that didn't have a clean edge to push against. Beautiful was information. Fierce was obvious. The rest sat wrong, like it had skipped the part of her that filtered things out.
Her head didn't catch up fast enough to stop it.
She nodded.
Just once.
He nodded back, like that was enough, and stepped out, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
The gym stayed lit, the hum settling back into the space, the bent bar still in the rack, the dead treadmill against the wall, everything exactly where it had been except for the absence of him.
Amber stood in the middle of it, heat still in her skin, the quiet in her head no longer empty.
Who the hell is this guy.