For Me,There Is Only You |18+|

59. The Combat Training

Not having proper clothes to wear was slowly becoming a serious problem.

I stared into the wooden cupboard. About 80% of it was filled with ankle-length summer dresses—light, flowy, and completely useless for what I needed today.

They had served me well for casual wear, but now that Ansel had called me to the training room, showing up in a flowy dress just didn't seem like the best idea.

Unless, of course, I wanted to trip over the hem and take myself out before training even started.

Thankfully, there was a pair of black sports leggings and a sports bra I hadn't worn yet—perfect for the occasion. But if Ansel planned to train me every day, I couldn't possibly survive on just one set.

And asking him for more clothes?

Yeah, no.

That would only result in another heap of dainty dresses dumped unceremoniously onto my bed, as if he genuinely believed I was auditioning for a Victorian garden party.

What was his obsession with those, anyway?

Did he think I was secretly vying for the role of "Lady Who Strolls Elegantly Through a Meadow"?

Sighing, I quickly changed into black sports leggings and a burgundy cutout stretch sports bra—the kind that looked great on a mannequin but left my back almost entirely bare thanks to its crisscross design.

Not exactly my comfort zone.

I tied my hair into a high ponytail, making sure it wouldn't become a nuisance later, then grabbed Ansel's hoodie—the one I had shamelessly stolen on my trip to Grimwood with Genesis and still hadn't returned.

The sports bra showed more skin than I was entirely comfortable with, and the hoodie was my best bet at avoiding an existential crisis over it.

With my heart already thudding—not from anticipation, but from something else entirely—I stepped into the dimly lit hallway leading to the training room. The ground floor lacked windows, leaving the air thick and shadowed.

The door of the training room was slightly ajar.

I reached for it, but the moment I caught sight of him, my breath faltered.

There he was.

Stretched out on the mat, his body gleamed under the dim lighting, a light sheen of sweat catching on every ridge and hollow of his muscles.

He moved in slow motion, rolling a foam cylinder beneath his thick, sculpted thighs. Each shift made his quads flex and tighten, the raw strength in his legs impossible to ignore.

His black workout shorts had ridden up slightly, exposing more of that firm, carved muscle, flexing with each controlled movement.

And his upper half? Completely bare.

Every defined line of his abs, every taut inch of his abdomen, was on full display, his skin glistening from exertion.

Broad shoulders, strong arms braced against the floor, veins prominent as he pressed his weight into the roll, muscles rippling beneath golden-bronze skin.

God, he looked good.

Too good.

I never thought quad foam rolling could be so tempting.

Eyes closed, his head was tilted back slightly, lips parted in a silent exhale.

The rise and fall of his chest was mesmerizing, his body moving with a fluid grace that made something tighten in my core.