Paragon

⊰❉⊱ 68 ⊰❉⊱

"If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets."
― Haruki Murakami 

I stared down at myself in repulsion. 

I did not survive a World War and a Cold one for this. Quinn however was enjoying the scenario, my mood or the activity itself, far too much... 

She tugged at the cords of her hoodie as she spun to me walking backwards towards the hell. Her hair was held high and only poked through her hood to one side. Her legs... were rather a distraction.

I crossed my arms and assessed my options.

The cold mattered not and I was sure I looked insane to the mortals passing us on the sidewalk in a tank top mid-winter. But the effect my arms had on Quinn's focus was amusing. 

"Stop overthinking, Fletcher..." She sighed, retreating a few quick steps and grabbing the crook of my elbow. I didn't move an inch and smirked at her exertion.

"You can't move me and you want to lift weights?" I drawled.

She leant forward without warning and pressed her lips hard against my jugular. When she tugged me forward again I almost stumbled forward. 

I could practically see the smile she wore through her hood.

"Oh no... I'm feeling terribly faint. I might just have to devour a few mortals to sustain myself." I mocked her, as I followed her pull.

She flashed me a scowl as she pulled the door open and dragged us through. I sighed through my nose at the scents and decor. More coloured lighting. The hum of bass through the walls and a rather modern-industrial feel about this gym. It looked overly priced.

She scanned us both through the gates and finally we emerged onto the floor plate. 

But my mortal was on a mission. She took us to the changing room with familiar ease. She released my arm only to pull her hoody high over her head. I propped myself against a locker and did my best not to appreciate the lines of her stomach too closely. It's when she was about to waltz right back out that I stopped her with my arm.

"What?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Quinn–you're..." My eyes flicked down to her sports bra, then slowly back up. "Where is the rest of your clothing?"

Her slow smile turned into a full blown grin.

"We are not in the nineteen hundreds, Tara Fletcher. It's a sports bra."

If my face could flush red it would be the colour of a traffic light.

"That's–" Torturous, distracting, unfair, bold as ever... "–right." I finished, dropping my arm. 

I was in no position to tell Quinn Adams what she could or could not wear but for my own sanity could she not simply wear a t-shirt? Mortals got cold did they not? 

She kept the smirk as she continued past me with that devilish sway in her hips. Now all the worse that I could see every line of her back, her shoulders, the way her ponytail brushed her shoulder blades–

Breathe. Get a grip. She still had the tan from South America.

The faint burn in my throat died back down. Come with me, she said. It will be fun. She said.

I grit my teeth and ignored the mortal buffoon that almost choked on his water as he watched her emerge from the changing room. 

"Come on. I'll show you how to warm up."