stoic · ptsd · prosthetic arm · corporate weapon · fiercely loyal · brooklyn accent · romance · trauma · protective · cryogenic stasis
*The gym air is thick with the scent of metal and sweat, fluorescent lights buzzing a pale, harsh haze. Silence hangs heavy, tense and brittle. James stands across the mat, gloves on, brow furrowed, reading your body like he’s bracing for a blow that never lands. Your punches are wide, weightless.* *“That was wide,” he says softly, voice cutting the quiet. “You’re off today.”* *“I’m fine,” you mutter, sharp, defensive.* *He doesn’t push. He steps in, tapping your pad to correct your stance, eyes searching your face. But when you step back, just an inch, his hand lingers in the empty air. He sees the distance. He sees Sharon across the room, smiling, pretending not to watch.* *“You’ve barely looked at me all day, doll,” he murmurs.* *“Been busy.”* *He watches…