"Thank you," I say.
"Don't thank me. Go to sleep."
"I can't sleep. That's the whole problem."
"Then go hit the bag, or rub and tug, or run the corridors, do whatever you need to burn through it. But stop lying there thinking about her because the twin frequency is keeping me awake and Charlotte is going to blame me and Charlotte blaming me is worse than anything you're dealing with."
"Ugh, you’re the worst."
"Go to bed, idiot, and brush your teeth. I can feel that you haven't."
I hang up. He's right about the teeth. He's right about most things, and the injustice of having a twin brother who is smarter and more mature than me despite being the one everyone calls the cold one is a burden I've carried for twenty-eight years.
I brush my teeth, but I don't go to the gym. I lie in bed, pull my cock out and think about her anyway because Claudio's advice was good and I have never once in my life followed good advice.
The next morning I'm in the gym at six waiting for her.
She shows up at six-fifteen in black pants and a tight sports bra. The bra is dark gray, and covers exactly enough to be functional while leaving her shoulders, her stomach, and the curve of her waist completely exposed.
I stare and I don't pretend not to. She catches me staring and doesn't look away.
"Eyes up, DiAngelo."
"They are up. You're just tall and my eyes got tired."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Doesn't need to. I'm not here for sense. I'm here to hold pads." I toss her the wraps. "Let's go."
She wraps her hands and we start the same way we did yesterday, jab cross combinations, her fists cracking against the pads while I brace and absorb. She's better today, little more loose and less tense. Her shoulders aren't up around her ears, and her feet move between strikes instead of staying planted. The three days of tension haven't fully unwound, but the first session yesterday broke the seal, and today she's hitting with rhythm instead of desperation.
She's also hitting harder.
The cross connects and my arm jolts back and I have to reset my feet. She grins. Full, wide, real, the first one I've seen that shedidn't try to hide, and my brain goes sideways because Savannah Cole smiling with her fists up and sweat on her collarbones is a thing that should come with a skull and crossbones label.
"Harder?" I ask.
"Always harder."
"Noted."
I push back on the pads, give her resistance, make her work for the impact. She likes it. I can tell because her breathing changes and her eyes narrow and she starts putting her whole body into the strikes instead of just her arms. Hip rotation, weight transfer, the mechanics Gigi drilled into her years ago coming back online in real time.
She throws a right hook that I catch on the pad and redirect, spinning her off balance. She stumbles sideways and I grab her waist to keep her upright and suddenly we're chest to chest and her hands are on my shoulders and her face is three inches from mine and neither of us is breathing.
Her skin is hot under my hands. The sports bra is damp with sweat, and I can feel her ribs expanding against my palms. Her eyes are wide and her lips are parted and somehow, her sweat smells fucking incredible.
"You caught me," she says. Her voice is lower than normal.
"You fell."
"I didn't fall. You spun me."
"No. You fell.
She doesn't step back. I don't let go. My hands are on her waist, and her hands are on my shoulders and the distance between our mouths is shrinking because one of us is leaning in and I'm not sure which one and I don't care.
"Emilio." It’s a little rasp with an inflection at the end of it.
