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I can’t think about any of it, I gotta keep moving.

I stand and walk to the lat pulldown machine, set the measly weight of twenty pounds, and get to work.

I’ve almost gotten rid of the lustful spell by not looking at anything but Tucker’s forehead—the only bodypart of his that’s not sexual in any way—for an hour and a half.

The third period is more than halfway done, and Vegas is fighting to maintain their one-goal lead, and my time is up.

We finish up with bench presses, which means I either have to stand behind Tucker’s head and fully focus on his arms, his form, his breathing, or he has to stand right by my head while I have the perfect view of his sculpted body rising above me.

He goes first, and I discover I’m not overly attracted to his fingers, so I focus on those while my hands hover over the bar.

He lifts an insane two-fifty easily, doing five sets of fifteen.

I’m barely able to speak while he does, only managing to get out the count. The worst thing is when he’s done, and I have to physically shake off . . . everything I’m feeling.

We switch out the weights without having to talk about it at all. That easy synchronicity feels like lead on my chest.

It’s too easy.

Everything—even what shouldn’t be—is easy with Tucker.

He counts my five sets of ten, and has to help me set the bar in place when my arms won’t stop shaking at the end.

I look up, ready to thank him, when my eyes find his without my permission.

I can see his eyes so clearly from down here, his cap only providing a shadow and not complete obscurity from this angle.

It’s dangerous, and I hate how charged the air turns, even while it makes every cell in my body sing.

Slowly, like he’s scared any movement will set off a chain reaction, he moves around the bench.

I sit up just as slowly, and my lungs are screaming by the time he’s standing between my knees.

Tension coils every one of my muscles, and I know that if I don’t move, we’re not going to be able to go back. We won’t⁠—

I stand quickly, jerkily, uncoordinated, and end up pressed to him chest to impressive-as-fuck chest.

Too much contact, too much heat, too⁠—

My brain goes offline when he lifts one arm. Like a moth to a flame, I follow it and see muscles rippling. My mouth waters when he grabs the brim of his cap, then turns it backwards.

Holy hotness.

Too much contact, too much heat, too little thought.

My hands land on his shoulders—which compete for the hottest part of his body with about a million other inches of skin—and when I give in and look into his eyes, the warmth and want in them snaps something inside me loose.

Our lips connect like magnets, fast and inevitable, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle that were always meant to connect.

We stay there, feeling, absorbing every emotional blow a single point of contact can bring.

There’s more, our chests were already slotted together, and my palms rest perfectly on the curve of his shoulders, but then his hands wrap around my hips like a perfectly sized belt.

This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real.

A mantra can still be a lie, no matter how much I wish it wasn’t.

“This is so wrong,” I whisper, but my grip tightens on his shoulders. I can’t let go.