Page 56 of Property of Scar

“Oh, I’m focused,” I shoot back, but the words come a fraction slower than they should, my attention dragging over him before I can stop it.

His hair is no longer controlled, dark strands fallen loose, roughened by movement and impact, the kind of disarray that looks earned rather than careless. There’s a faint sheen across his skin, not sweat the way it would be on anyone else, but something close enough to catch the light along the planes of his chest and throat, tracing the lines of muscle in a way that feels… distracting.

Too damn distracting.

He stands in the middle of the wreckage like none of it touches him, like the broken benches and cracked concrete are background noise to whatever he’s focused on next.

Me.

Something tightens low in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome. I force my gaze back to his eyes, locking onto something safer, something that doesn’t pull at me in quite the same way.

“You’re just difficult to ignore.”

His head tilts slightly, and this time it isn’t neutral.

He saw it.

Of course, he did.

His gaze drops, following the exact path mine just took, like he’s retracing it on purpose, like he wants me to know he noticed, and heat crawls up the back of my neck before I can stop it. When his eyes lift back to mine, there’s something there now. Not amusement, but something more aware.

“Am I?” he asks quietly.

I lift my chin slightly, refusing to give him the reaction he’s looking for, even as my pulse kicks harder. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

His mouth shifts, just barely, something close to a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, but he doesn’t look away.

The words land differently than they should, but I don’t give myself time to think about it.

I move.

Fast.

Closing the distance again in a blur of motion, my body hits his with enough force to drive him backward another step. My hand catches his shirt this time, gripping hard, using it to anchor myself as I drive a strike toward his side.

He catches my wrist before it lands, but this time he doesn’t immediately turn it. For half a second, he holds it there.

Close.

My breath stutters, just slightly, the rhythm breaking in a way I feel immediately. His hand is still cool against my skin, still steady, no pulse under it, no give.

I hate how aware of that I am.

“You’re hesitating,” he says quietly, his voice closer now, lower.

I lean in instead of pulling back, letting the space between us close even further, my grip tightening on his shirt. “You’re not.”

His gaze drops for a fraction of a second, not to my face…

Lower.

Then back up again.

Something flickers there. “Should I be?”

My pulse kicks harder. “Depends,” I murmur, my voice just as low, just as steady, even if my body is anything but. “Are you trying to win…” I shift my weight suddenly, wrenching my wrist free and using the movement to drag him forward, “… or something else?”

We crash into another rack, the impact sending a barbell clattering to the floor, plates bouncing and rolling across the room. He absorbs it faster this time, his hands coming to my waist as he redirects the movement.