Chapter 233: Gym Session

Chapter 243: Gym Session The treadmill sat in the corner of the gym like a sleek, black predator. I looked at it. It looked back. Neither of us blinked.

You can do this, Noah, I told myself, stepping onto the belt. You are a person with legs. Legs were made for running. This is fine. You’re fine. This is going to be great, actually. You’ll get that ’runner’s high’ people talk about. You’ll be glowing.

Cassian was standing to the side, arms crossed over his bare, sculpted chest. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read, but I should have known better. He saw my confidence, and he decided it was unearned.

"Oh," I said as the belt lurched forward. Then: "Oh no."

Thirty seconds in, my breathing changed. The "glow" I was expecting turned out to be a frantic, sweaty red. My cardiovascular system, which had been living a very comfortable and unchallenged life of sitting in office chairs and lying on sofas, was now very upset about the change in management.

Cassian didn’t say anything. He just stood there, the picture of calm, watching me struggle for oxygen like it was a spectator sport. There was a tiny flicker of amusement in his eyes—controlled, but definitely there.

Finally, mercifully, Cassian hit the stop button.

"I’m done," I wheezed to the light fixtures. "I’m finished. Goodbye, world."

"I know," I said, not moving a single muscle. "I’ve accepted my fate. If you wanted to kill me, there were faster ways. More enjoyable ones, too."

"Get up," he said.

"Position," he commanded.

Cassian crouched down beside me. The proximity was immediate and overwhelming. I could smell the sweat and the heat coming off his skin. His hand found the small of my back, pressing down lightly but firmly.

My body received this information via two separate systems. System One: The muscles being corrected. System Two: Everything else. System Two was significantly louder.

Technically, I was holding a plank.

His hand was warm and deliberate. There was nothing accidental about the way he touched me.

"Breathe," Cassian said quietly.

I took a shaky breath, not because of the exercise, but because having him this close made the air feel thin.

I collapsed instantly, face-planting into the mat. "Thank you," I muffled into the foam. "I thought I was going to die. I still might."

"I need a minute."

Someone save me.

Cassian didn’t let the tragedy continue. He crouched again, his hand finding my shoulder and adjusting it. "Too wide," he muttered. He moved his hand down to my wrist, repositioning my arm with a firm grip. "Here."

"Lower," his voice rumbled in my ear. "Controlled. Don’t drop."

The thoughts and the push-up were competing for the same mental resources, and the push-up was losing badly.

Then came the squats. Cassian stood directly behind me this time, "spotting" me. His hands were near my waist, not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the static in the air.

I did the squat. Every time my form slipped, his hands would find my waist for a brief, electric second to pull me back into alignment. Gone as soon as the correction was made.

"Stretch," Cassian finally said.

Cassian got down on the mat beside me. "Leg up."

Each one involved Cassian’s hands on me, guiding, holding, pushing.

Jesus Christ.

Then the hip flexor stretch. His hand stayed on my hip, his thumb pressing firmly into the muscle.

Finally, the shoulder stretch. He sat behind me, his hands on my arms, drawing them back to open my chest. I felt his chest press against my back, his breath hitting the nape of my neck.

Every instruction was a weight. Every touch was a question I didn’t know how to answer yet.

And I was hard. Inconveniently, completely, undeniably hard.

He leaned down, his voice a low vibration at my ear. "You might want to do something about that, Noah."

My face turned a color that I’m pretty sure isn’t found in nature. "I’m going to shower," I said, scrambling to my feet. I tried to assemble my dignity from whatever scraps were left on the floor. And honestly? It wasn’t much.

"I’ll join you," Cassian said simply.

"I know every thought you’ve been having for the last forty-five minutes, Noah," he said, stepping closer. It wasn’t a boast; it was a statement of fact, like the weather.

I turned to stomp toward the door, trying to maintain some level of "offended assistant" energy. I didn’t get far.

"Put me down!" I yelped, though my body was secretly, traitorously grateful for not having to walk on my sore legs anymore.

My dignity filed a formal complaint, but my body overruled it immediately. I stopped fighting.

Cassian reached for the hem of his own shirt, the one he wasn’t wearing and then realized he’d already taken it off. He moved to the waistband of his sweatpants instead.

It hit me the same way every single time—a physical weight in my chest, a sudden, sharp hunger that bypassed my brain and went straight to my blood.

I want to suck his dick