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My breath catches.

I turn my head. His face is inches from mine.

“You know,” I whisper, “for someone trying very hard not to touch me, you're doing a terrible job.”

Roman's gaze drops to my mouth. His hand stays over mine. “Lift the fucking weight, Chaos.”

I smile. “Yes, James.”

His eyes close.

And I fall a little bit harder.

25

CALLIE

Roman makes me do twelve squats. Actual squats. And not the kind where I accidentally-on-purpose put my ass over his face.

Which, frankly, feels like a waste of everyone's time.

“Lower.”

I glare at him through the mirror. “I am lower.”

“No, you're not.”

“My thighs disagree.”

“Your thighs are fine.”

Roman takes one look at my expression, closes his eyes, and groans.

My smile slowly grows. “You think my thighs are fine?”

“That isn't what I meant.”

“But you said⁠—”

“Squat.”

“So bossy.”

“Callie.”

“Roman.”

His jaw flexes.

I grin and lower again.

He stands behind me, arms crossed over his chest, watching my form with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. Which seems excessive. Then again, this is Roman. Everything he does looks like it could potentially end in murder.

“Better,” he says.

I straighten. My legs already feel shaky. “This is terrible.”

“You've done twelve.”