"Yes," Nathan said.
"We're doing this?"
He looked at me with the expression he used when I was stating something obvious. "You invited me."
"I know I invited you. I'm just—" I moved my hand. "Processing."
"You can process later."
"Nathan."
"Wesley." He said it with the patience of a man who had made a decision and was waiting for me to catch up to it. "You've been in this locker room before."
"Not with you."
Something shifted at the corner of his mouth. "No," he said. "Not with me."
I looked at him for a second. Nathan Cross, in my locker room, with his jacket still on and his collar still straight and that expression that was not quite a smile.
I started taking off my gear.
His eyes moved. Just briefly, just once, down and back up, the kind of thing you'd miss if you weren't paying attention.
I was paying attention.
"There's a process," I said, because apparently I was narrating this. "To the gear. It goes in a certain order."
"I'm aware of how your equipment works," Nathan said.
“Are you?”
Nathan held my gaze for exactly one second. “The gear,” he said. “I meant the gear.”
“Sure.” I dropped the shirt. "Obviously. And for the record," I added, because apparently self-preservation had left thebuilding, "you are not actually aware of how my equipment works."
Nathan went very still.
"Wesley."
"You've never seen it," I said. "Not in full operational mode. So any conclusions you're drawing right now are premature."
His jaw tightened.
"I was referring to the protective gear."
"Whatever you say," I said.
His shirt came off next.
Fuck, he was hot.
"You're staring," Nathan said.
"I'm not staring. Okay, yeah, I am. I've seen you without a shirt," I said. "I've seen you working out. This is—"
"Different," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "It is."
