Breaking Point

Ember Fitness sat on the corner of Fifth and Washington, a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the late afternoon light. It was the kind of gym that tried to be everything: rows of treadmills and ellipticals facing the street, weight racks and machines filling the main floor, a pristine yoga studio in the back. But what Will loved was the far corner, past the free weights and the protein shake bar, where the hardwood opened up into a dedicated martial arts space. Heavy bags hung from reinforced ceiling beams. A full-size ring sat against the far wall, ropes sagging slightly. And in the center, a large open mat that had seen better days, the surface worn smooth in places from years of footwork and grappling.

It smelled like sweat and rubber and the faint chemical tang of cleaning solution. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed occasionally. The mirrors along the wall had water stains in the corners that the staff never quite managed to clean. It wasn't some old-school dojo, but it had a realness to it that the gleaming machines up front lacked.

Murphy, a grizzled sixty-year old veteran and former ran the martial arts program at Ember, a hybrid class that drew from multiple disciplines: karate, taekwondo, jiu-jitsu, muay thai. People could focus on whatever style called to them, and Murphy adapted his teaching to fit. It attracted a mixed crowd. Some came for the cardio. Others for the discipline. A few, like Will and Bernard, came because they needed somewhere to put their aggression that wouldn't land them in jail.

Will had gravitated toward jiu-jitsu early on. Something about the ground game appealed to him. The chess match of it. Reading your opponent, finding the leverage point, making them submit through technique rather than brute force. He liked that it rewarded thinking three steps ahead.

Bernard, of course, had gone straight for muay thai. All devastating striking and controlled violence. Elbows, knees, clinch work. The art of eight limbs practiced by someone built like a tank. Watching Bernard work the heavy bag was like watching a natural disaster in slow motion.

It meant their sparring sessions were always interesting. Striker versus grappler. Power versus technique. And lately, they'd been pushing each other harder, learning each other's styles, finding the gaps.

Will had been coming here for almost two years now, ever since he'd moved to the city for work. Tuesday and Thursday evenings, sometimes Saturdays if he could swing it. It was the one place he could shut off his brain, stop thinking about client revisions and creative briefs and whether his art director was going to kill his concept again. Just him and the mat and the clean simplicity of technique.

The heavy bag creaked on its chain. Will threw another combination, sweat running down his temple despite the October chill seeping through the high windows. Tuesday evening, six thirty. Same as always.

Across the martial arts space, Bernard worked his own bag. The sound of his strikes echoed through the gym. Sharp. Heavy. Each impact precise and controlled. The bag swung on its chain like a pendulum, and Bernard moved with it, circling, setting up the next combination.

Will tried not to watch. Failed.

They'd been here an hour already. Will had done his usual routine on the weight floor first, then moved to the mat for drills. Bernard had shown up twenty minutes after Will, gone straight to the free weights, spent forty-five minutes pushing iron with the kind of focus that made other gym-goers give him space. Now they were both here, in the martial arts corner, studiously ignoring each other while being hyperaware of every move the other made.

It had been like this all week. Ever since their last sparring session had ended with Bernard getting Will in a clinch that lasted three seconds too long and felt nothing like training. Ever since Will had gone home that night unable to stop thinking about the way Bernard's breath had felt against his ear, the solid heat of his body, the smell of his sweat.

Will hit the bag harder. Tried to empty his head.

Then he heard Bernard's bag go still.

Footsteps. Coming closer.

Will's jaw tightened. He kept hitting the bag. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Don't look. Don't engage.

"Carter."

Will threw a roundhouse kick that made the bag swing wild. Didn't answer.

"Carter." Louder now. Closer. "We need to talk about last Tuesday."

That made Will stop. He caught the bag, stilled it, turned slowly. Bernard stood ten feet away, gym bag at his feet. Six three, built like he'd been carved from marble and then told to get bigger. Broad shoulders straining against his faded Henley, thick arms covered in muscle from years of work. Pale skin, sharp jawline, sandy brown hair that always looked like he'd just run his hands through it. He had that classic all-American look, but rougher. Like Captain America if he'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks. Worn jeans with a rip at the knee, scuffed boots, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder despite the gym's warmth.

The kind of guy who looked like he'd either save you from a bar fight or start one, depending on his mood.

"There's nothing to talk about," Will said flatly.

"The hell there isn't." Bernard took a step closer. "You've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't been avoiding you. I've been training."

"You changed your schedule."

"I came at my usual time."

"You came an hour earlier than usual," Bernard said. "Don't bullshit me, Carter."

His hands clenched. "Maybe I just wanted to train in peace for once."

"Right. Peace." Bernard's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. More like a challenge. Blue-gray eyes locked on Will's. "Is that what you call it when you can't even look at me?"

"I'm looking at you right now."

"Yeah. And you look pissed."

"I am pissed," Will snapped. "You want to know why? Because I come here to escape the bullshit in my life, and you keep turning it into another thing I have to manage. Another thing I have to think about when I'm trying to shut my brain off."

Bernard's jaw tightened. "That what Tuesday was? Me making your life difficult?"

"Tuesday was a mistake."

"Which part?"

"All of it." Will grabbed his water bottle, took a drink. "We train. That's it. Let's keep it that way."

"You're the one who asked for the clinch work."

"And you're the one who made it weird."

"I made it weird?" Bernard laughed, sharp and humorless. "You're the one who couldn't let go."

Heat flushed Will's face. "Fuck you, Bernard."

"That an offer?"

The gym seemed to go quiet. Will's heart hammered. His skin felt hot despite the cold air from the windows.

Bernard held his gaze for a long moment, then shook his head. "Get on the mat, Carter."

"What?"

"You heard me. Get on the mat. Let's settle this."

"I'm not sparring with you."

"Why? Scared you'll enjoy it too much?"

Will's temper snapped. He stripped off his hand wraps and threw them aside. "Fine. Let's go."

Bernard's smile turned sharp. "That's more like it."

Murphy emerged from the back office, a grizzled former Marine in his sixties who owned Ember. He took one look at Will and Bernard squaring up and shook his head. "You two gonna actually train or just stand there eye-fucking each other?"

"Training," Will said, voice tight.

"Finally," Bernard said.

Murphy snorted. "Keep it controlled. And if I see blood, you're both banned for a week." He moved toward the front where a few newer students were struggling with basic stances.

Bernard was already walking toward the changing area, peeling off his jacket. "Come on, pretty boy. Let's see what you got."

Will's teeth ground together. Pretty boy. Bernard had been calling him that for months, always in that tone that made it sound like an insult, but something about the way he said it set Will's nerves on edge in a way he couldn't name.

Will let out a long breath. A couple of guys on the bench press nearby glanced over, then went back to their sets. The martial arts corner was mostly empty tonight, just one woman working the speed bag on the far side and an older guy doing pad work in the ring.

Five minutes later they were on the mat.

Bernard had changed into compression shorts and a fitted tank that showed off arms that belonged on a goddamn superhero. His gi top hung loose over it, the way it always did, like he couldn't be bothered to tie it properly. Will kept his neat, tied tight. It was a small thing, but it felt important. A line between them.

They bowed. A formality. Murphy's one rule.

Then they began.

Bernard came in first, testing with a jab. Will slipped it, circled left. His jiu-jitsu training made him patient. Let Bernard commit. Let him overextend. Then take him down.

But Bernard didn't overextend. He feinted high, came in low with a leg kick that caught Will's thigh. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to sting. A reminder.

Will reset his stance. Okay. He wants to play striker. Fine.

They circled each other. The mat creaked under their weight. Around them, the gym continued its usual rhythm. Someone dropped weights on the far side with a crash. The treadmills hummed. Pop music played through the overhead speakers, barely audible over the general noise. But on the mat, it felt like just the two of them. Their own world.

"You're tense," Bernard said.

"You talk too much."

Bernard grinned. Threw a combination. Jab, cross, hook. Will blocked the first two, slipped the hook, shot in for a takedown.

Got Bernard's hips. Drove forward.

Bernard sprawled hard, his weight dropping on Will's back. For a second they were locked there, Will's face pressed against Bernard's stomach, Bernard's arm wrapped around his head. Will could smell him. Sweat and that faint hint of cologne he wore even to the gym.

Then Bernard spun out, breaking free.

They reset.

"Nice try," Bernard said, breathing slightly harder now. But he was grinning. Actually grinning like this was fun.

Will didn't answer. This wasn't fun. This was serious. He came in again, feinted the takedown, stood up into range, and cracked Bernard with a straight right that snapped his head back.

Bernard's eyes widened. Then he laughed. Actually laughed, touching his jaw. "There you are," he said, and his voice had changed. Gone darker. "I was wondering when you'd stop being polite."

"This isn't a joke, Bernard."

"Who's joking?" But Bernard was still smiling as he came at Will fast.

He came at Will fast. A blitz of strikes that had Will backpedaling. Jab, jab, low kick, hook to the body, knee as Will tried to close distance. Each technique crisp and brutal. This was Bernard in his element. The striker. The pressure fighter.

Will covered up, weathered the storm, then caught Bernard's next kick and took him down hard.

They hit the mat together. Will went for mount. Bernard bucked, rolled, tried to create space. Will stayed heavy, stayed close, working for position. This was his world now. The ground game. Where technique beat strength and patience beat speed.

He got Bernard's back. Sunk in a hook. Worked his arm under Bernard's chin for the choke.

"Tap," Will said, quiet. His mouth was right by Bernard's ear.

Bernard's hands came up, fighting the choke. His breath was ragged. Will could feel Bernard's heart hammering against his chest.

"Tap," Will said again, tightening the choke.

Bernard's hand slapped the mat twice.

Will released immediately. Rolled off. They both lay on the mat for a second, chests heaving.

Then Bernard laughed. Actually laughed, throwing his head back. "Okay. One to you, Carter. Didn't think you had it in you."

Will sat up, scowling. Bernard was enjoying this. Treating it like a game while Will was trying to prove something. His gi top had come loose during the scramble. Bernard's too. They were both sweating, both flushed, gasping in the cold air.

"Again?" Bernard asked, still grinning.

Will should say no. Should get up, call it done, go home. But that smug look on Bernard's face made him want to wipe it off. "Yeah. Again."

"That's the spirit." Bernard's eyes gleamed.

They reset.

This time they both came out more aggressive. Trading strikes, clinching, breaking, moving. Will landed a clean jab that made Bernard's head snap back. Bernard caught Will with a body kick that drove the air from his lungs. They grappled against the wall of the ring, working for position, neither willing to give an inch.

It was brutal. It was personal. It was everything Will needed and nothing he understood.

Bernard got him in a clinch. Knee to the body. Will absorbed it, got double underhooks, tripped Bernard to the mat. They scrambled. Bernard nearly passed Will's guard. Will caught him in closed guard, controlled his posture, worked for a triangle.

Bernard stacked him. Pressure. Weight. His face inches from Will's as he fought to break free from the triangle attempt.

Their eyes met.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Bernard's breathing was ragged. His pupils were blown wide. A drop of sweat fell from his forehead onto Will's chest.

"Carter..." Bernard's voice was rough.

"Get off me," Will said, but his own voice sounded wrong. Breathless.

Bernard shifted his weight. Not pulling away. Just adjusting. His hips pressed down against Will's in a way that had nothing to do with jiu-jitsu and everything to do with the sudden heat flooding Will's body.

Will shoved him. Hard. Bernard rolled away.

They both got to their feet.

"Your guard's down," Bernard said, circling. But his voice had gone quiet. Intense.

"Your mouth's open," Will countered, but his hands were shaking.

Bernard caught Will's kick, grip firm and hot even through the gi pants. "Mouth's good for other things too." He held Will's gaze, held his ankle. "Like talking shit. Which I'm better at than you."

He let go. Will stumbled back half a step.

"You planning to actually hit me, or are we just dancing?" Bernard asked.

"I'm hitting you plenty. You're just too thick to notice."

"Thick?" Bernard's grin widened as he closed the distance between them, forcing Will back toward the edge of the mat. "That's what they all say." He moved in close, their chests almost touching. "You gonna make me work for it, or you gonna let me pin you easy?"

"Back off, Bernard." Will shoved at his chest. Bernard barely moved.

"That's the spirit." Bernard's voice dropped lower. "I like it when you fight back."

Will's stomach did something weird. He shoved harder, broke free, and threw a combination that Bernard blocked with infuriating ease. They separated, both panting.

The woman on the speed bag had stopped to watch them, then apparently decided it wasn't worth her attention and went back to her rhythm. The gym's music shifted to something with a heavier beat.

"Water," Will said, not asking permission. He walked to the edge of the mat.

Bernard followed. Of course he did.

They stood there for a moment, drinking, not looking at each other. Will could feel the heat radiating off Bernard's body. Could see in his peripheral vision the way Bernard's chest rose and fell, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

"Best out of three falls," Bernard said suddenly. "Right now. Winner takes all."

Will looked at him. "Winner takes what?"

Bernard's eyes met his. Something flickered there. Something dangerous. "Guess we'll find out."

Will should walk away. Should make up an excuse. Should do anything but agree to this obviously terrible idea.

"Fine," he heard himself say. "But when I win, you shut up for an entire session."

"And when I win," Bernard said, "you stop pretending you hate having me around."

Will's heart hammered. "Deal."

————

Summer bled into fall. They kept training. Kept sparring. The tension between them built slowly, session by session.

By late August, Will had stopped trying to figure out what Bernard's deal was. The guy was just an asshole. That was the simplest explanation. An asshole who happened to be good at muay thai and knew exactly how to get under Will's skin.

Bernard showed up one Thursday evening in early September with a split lip and a bruise blooming purple along his jaw.

"Jesus," Will said before he could stop himself. "What happened?"

Bernard touched his lip gingerly. "Bar fight. Some asshole didn't handle rejection well."

Will's hands clenched before he could stop them. Something hot and ugly twisted in his chest. "He hit you for turning him down?"

Bernard's eyes flickered with something Will couldn't read. "Easy, Carter. Someone might think you actually give a damn about me."

"I don't," Will said quickly. Too quickly. "Just don't want people thinking we're the kind of gym where people show up looking like that."

"Right. The gym's reputation." Bernard's smile was different. Quieter. "Don't worry. I hit back harder."

They sparred that night, and Bernard pushed closer than usual. More aggressive. Like the fight at the bar hadn't been enough to work out whatever was eating at him.

At one point, showing Will a better angle for a throw, Bernard stepped in close behind him. His hand settled on Will's shoulder, adjusting his stance. Warm and solid through the gi.

"Gotta get your hips right," Bernard said, his other hand briefly touching Will's side, fingers pressing just above his waist. "Feel that?"

Will's skin felt hot where Bernard touched him. "Yeah."

"Good." Bernard's voice was low, close to his ear. His breath ghosted against Will's neck. "You're a fast learner when you want to be, pretty boy."

Then he stepped back. Will stood there, heart pounding, skin still burning where Bernard's hands had been.

He's just being a dick, Will told himself as he reset his stance. Testing boundaries. Trying to throw me off my game. That's all this is.

But later that week, Bernard did it again. Adjusted Will's guard by running his hand down Will's arm, slow and deliberate. Corrected his footwork by tapping the inside of Will's thigh with his knee, letting it linger half a second too long. Each touch felt calculated. Purposeful.

And each time, Bernard would step back with that infuriating smirk, watching Will's face like he was waiting for something.

Will started leaving the gym wound tight and frustrated in ways he didn't want to examine. Started thinking about Bernard at odd hours. Started replaying those moments of contact and wondering why they bothered him so much.

Because he's in your space, Will rationalized. Because he doesn't respect boundaries. Because he's making training weird when it should be simple.

It had nothing to do with the way Bernard's voice dropped when he said "pretty boy." Nothing to do with the heat of his hands or the smell of his sweat or the way Will's pulse jumped every time Bernard got close.

Nothing at all.

————

November settled in with early darkness and biting cold. The gym got quieter after nine on weeknights, the cardio crowd thinning out, the weight floor less crowded. By the time Will and Bernard finished their sessions, the martial arts corner would be nearly empty. Just them and maybe one or two other people finishing up their own training, someone on the rowing machine in the corner, the night shift desk staff scrolling through their phones.

Murphy had given them both keys months ago. "You two are here more than anyone else," he'd said. "Might as well make it official. Just lock up when you're done." It made sense. Will's job at the agency meant late nights and unpredictable hours. Sometimes the only time he could train was after ten, when everyone else had gone home. Bernard worked hospitality, which meant weird shifts and the occasional need to blow off steam at odd hours. So they'd both gotten into the habit of showing up late, the gym quiet and nearly empty, just the way they liked it.

The overhead lights seemed harsher at night, casting sharp shadows across the mat. The mirrors reflected their movements back at them, two figures circling each other while the rest of the converted warehouse hummed with the ambient sound of treadmills and the heating system.

Will had stopped pretending he didn't watch for Bernard's arrival. Stopped pretending he didn't feel something shift in his chest when Bernard walked through the glass doors with that leather jacket and that attitude and that infuriating smirk. It was just habit now. Routine. The way Bernard immediately got under his skin was as familiar as the weight of his own gym bag.

Until one night, everything changed.

Tonight, something was different.

Bernard had been worse than usual all evening. More needling. More challenges. More of that deliberate invasion of space that made Will's jaw clench. They'd been drilling for an hour and Will was tired, shoulders aching from hunching over his desk all day finishing a campaign pitch that his creative director would probably tear apart tomorrow anyway.

The last person on the mat besides them packed up their gear and headed out. Through the windows, Will could see the desk staff member making their rounds, checking machines. They were essentially alone now. Both of them had keys. Either one could lock up. It was routine at this point.

Will grabbed his gym bag from against the wall, started shoving his hand wraps inside. He was done. Tired. His campaign pitch was due tomorrow and he still had revisions to make tonight. He just wanted to go home, shower, maybe get three hours of sleep before doing it all over again.

"Leaving already?" Bernard's voice came from behind him.

Will didn't turn around. Kept packing. "Yeah. Some of us have work tomorrow."

"It's barely nine."

"Some of us have actual deadlines."

"Come on, Carter." Bernard moved closer. Will could hear the grin in his voice. "One more round. Unless you're too tired."

"I am tired, Bernard." Will zipped his bag. "Find someone else to play with."

"But you're so much more fun when you're grumpy."

Will finally turned. Bernard stood there, rolling his shoulders, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Like this was all a game. Like he hadn't been pushing Will's buttons all evening.

"I'm not playing," Will said flatly.

"Who said anything about playing?" Bernard's grin widened. "I'm serious. Best out of three falls. Right now. Winner takes all."

"Winner takes what, Bernard? This isn't a fucking game."

"Everything's a game, Carter. You're just mad you're losing."

Heat flashed through Will. "I'm not losing. I'm leaving."

"Same thing." Bernard shrugged, but his eyes were intent. Focused. "Unless you want to actually settle this. Prove you're not running."

Will's jaw clenched. "I'm not running."

"Then prove it." Bernard's smile had an edge now. Challenging. "Get on the mat. Show me what you got. Or admit you're scared."

"I'm not scared of you."

"Then why are you leaving?"

Will dropped his bag. "Fine. One round. When I win, you shut up for an entire session."

"And when I win," Bernard said, that infuriating grin back, "you stop pretending you hate having me around."

Will's heart hammered. "Deal."

They'd both been going at it hard enough that their gi tops had come loose, fabric parting to show skin beneath. The heating system had finally kicked in, making the air close and warm. Will rolled his neck, focused. This was it. A year and a half of Bernard acting like he owned the place, like Will was just some plaything he could mess with whenever he wanted. All those comments and touches and looks that Will couldn't quite read. Months of feeling off-balance and annoyed and something else he refused to name.

This was about respect. About proving Bernard couldn't just push him around. About finally shutting him up and showing him that Will wasn't someone he could toy with.

They circled each other. Bernard moved first, fast and aggressive. Will blocked, countered. They grappled, neither giving ground. Will could feel Bernard's strength, the solid weight of him, all muscle and intent. But he wasn't backing down. Not tonight.

He shifted his weight, looking for an opening. Bernard adjusted, reading him too easily. They strained against each other, muscles locked, breath coming fast. The mat creaked under their combined weight. Sweat dripped down Will's spine.

Will's gi top came loose, the fabric parting. Then Bernard's did too, whether from the struggle or his perpetual refusal to tie it properly, Will didn't know.

And then somehow they were chest to chest. Skin on skin. Both breathing hard, muscles straining, neither able to break the other's stance.

Will pushed harder, trying to throw Bernard off balance. This was about dominance. About finally besting this asshole who'd been in his face forever. He could feel everything. Bernard's heart hammering against his ribs, beating as hard as his own. The heat radiating off him. The sweat on both their skin. The way Bernard's hands gripped his shoulders, tight enough to bruise.

He looked up, ready to tell Bernard to back off, to give up, to admit Will had him.

Bernard was staring at him with an expression Will had never seen before. Raw. Almost desperate. His face was flushed, pupils blown wide, lips parted as he breathed hard. He looked like he was in pain. Or something close to it.

"What's wrong?" Will panted, still pushing, still trying to gain advantage. "Giving up?"

Bernard's jaw clenched. His hands tightened on Will's shoulders, then suddenly released. He shoved Will back, hard enough that Will stumbled.

"I'm done," Bernard said, voice rough and strange.

"What?" Will caught his balance, confused. "We just started. You said best of three."

"I'm done. That's it." Bernard was already turning away, heading toward the changing area on the far side of the martial arts space.

Anger surged through Will's exhaustion. "Are you serious right now? You challenged me!"

Bernard didn't respond. Just kept walking, his back rigid, heading past the heavy bags toward the lockers.

Will stood there on the mat, pulse racing with adrenaline and frustration and something else he couldn't name. What the hell? Bernard had been the one pushing for this all evening. Talking shit, making it clear he wanted to go, building up to this moment. And now he was just leaving? Just walking away like it meant nothing?

Like Will meant nothing?

"Fuck this," Will muttered.

He walked back to the mat area, grabbed his water bottle. Took a long drink. Then another. He found his towel, wiped the sweat from his face and neck. His hands were still shaking.

Just let it go. Just go home.

But he couldn't. The anger sat hot and tight in his chest, mixing with the adrenaline, refusing to settle.

Will grabbed his gym bag from where he'd left it by the wall. Started pulling out his street clothes. Jeans. T-shirt. He could shower at home. Just get dressed and get out of here before he said something he'd regret.

He'd pulled his gi top off, was reaching for his shirt when he heard Bernard's voice echo from the changing area. Not words. Just a sound. Frustrated. Angry.

Will froze, shirt in hand.

Fuck.

Will dropped the shirt back in his bag. He wasn't done. Not yet.

He followed.

The changing area sat tucked in the back corner. Clean tile, modern lockers, wood benches. Someone had turned on the blue calming lights Murphy installed for late-night unwinding, the strips along the baseboards and locker tops casting everything in a soft blue glow. Main lights dimmed low. Music drifted from the office, some slowed YouTube version of "I'll Gladly Place Myself Below You" by Matty, all distorted vocals and heavy bass.

Bernard was at his locker, moving fast. Shoving his street clothes into his gym bag. Water bottle. Hand wraps. Not even folding anything, just cramming it all in like he couldn't get out fast enough. His gi top still hung open, forgotten, showing the hard planes of his chest and stomach, the light catching on the sweat still drying on his skin.

"What the hell was that?" Will demanded.

Bernard didn't turn around. Kept packing, his shoulders tense. "Nothing. Just go home, Will."

"Nothing? You challenged me to that match. You were the one talking shit all night. And then you just walk away?"

"Yeah. I walked away. So what?" Bernard grabbed his phone, shoved it in the bag's side pocket. His hands weren't quite steady.

Will's anger built. Not just at Bernard walking away from the fight, but at everything. A year and a half of this. Bernard constantly in his space, in his head, making everything complicated.

"You know what? I'm so sick of this shit." Will's voice rose, echoing off the tile. "I come here to escape, Bernard. To shut my brain off for a couple hours. I spend all day dealing with clients who don't know what they want, bosses who change their minds every five minutes, deadlines that don't make sense. This gym is the one place I don't have to manage anyone or anything. The one place that's just mine."

Bernard's hands stilled on his bag for a moment, then kept moving.

"And you've turned it into another thing I have to deal with!" Will kept going, the words spilling out now that he'd started. "Every time I walk in here, I have to brace myself. Have to prepare for whatever shit you're going to say, whatever game you're going to play. You've made my one escape into just another source of stress, and I'm done. I'm fucking done with it."

Bernard zipped his bag closed with more force than necessary.

"So yeah, I want to know what that was out there. I want to know why you challenged me to that match if you were just going to walk away. I want to know why you've spent all this time making my life difficult for no goddamn reason, and I want to know why you won't even look at me right now!"

Bernard slung his bag over his shoulder and turned toward the exit.

"Don't you dare walk away from me," Will said, his voice sharp. "Don't you fucking dare..."

Bernard took a step.

His foot hit something. A small puddle near the showers, just a slick of water that someone had tracked out and not bothered to wipe up. Nothing, really.

His foot slid.

"Shit!"

Will moved on instinct. Lunged forward, hands reaching out to catch Bernard before he went down completely. His fingers caught fabric, Bernard's shirt, the strap of his bag. The bag slid off Bernard's shoulder and hit the tile with a heavy thud, contents spilling across the floor.

They went down together.

Bernard landed flat on his back with a grunt. Will came down on top of him, one knee between Bernard's legs, one hand bracing beside Bernard's head while the other slid under Bernard's shoulder, cradling his head to keep it from cracking against the tile.

For a second, neither of them moved. Just breathed hard, hearts racing from the sudden fall.

The music played on overhead, slow and distorted.

Will started to push himself up, started to apologize for grabbing him, for not catching him better.

Then he felt it.

Hard. Thick. Pressed unmistakably against his inner thigh.

Will froze.

Bernard's tank had ridden up in the fall, exposing the defined planes of his abs, the pale skin of his stomach. And lower, in those gray sweatpants Bernard had changed into, was the most obvious, unmistakable outline Will had ever seen. Hard and straining against the fabric, impossible to miss, impossible to misunderstand.

Will's brain stuttered. Stopped.

He looked up.

Bernard was staring at him, and for the first time since Will had known him, there was no smirk. No challenge. No cocky attitude. Just raw exposure. His face was flushed, darker than exertion would cause. His breathing uneven. And in his eyes, something Will had never seen before.

Vulnerability.

"This is why," Bernard said quietly. His voice had lost all its edge. "This is what you... this is why I left."

Will couldn't move. Couldn't process.

Bernard's jaw worked. His eyes flicked away, then back. There was color high on his cheeks. Actual embarrassment on a face that Will had only ever seen wear arrogance like armor.

"You were yelling at me," Bernard said, quieter now. Almost shy. "Telling me I ruined everything for you. And I was standing there trying not to..." He swallowed hard. "Take a look at what you do to me, Carter."

The words hit Will like a freight train.

Oh.

Oh god.

Everything clicked into place at once. The comments. Pretty boy. I like it when you fight back. The touching. The way Bernard always sought him out, always pushed his buttons, always seemed to be waiting for something.

A year and a half of confusion suddenly making perfect, horrible, earth-shattering sense.

Will's mouth opened. No sound came out.

Bernard watched him. Waited. The flush on his face deepening as the silence stretched between them. He looked younger like this. More real. All the bravado stripped away, leaving just a guy who'd been caught wanting something he thought he couldn't have.

"Bernard..." Will's voice came out barely above a whisper.

And that's when Bernard saw it. The exact moment Will's anger transformed into understanding. Into something softer.

Something shifted in Bernard's expression. The vulnerability didn't disappear, but something else rose alongside it. Recognition.

His hand came up, slow and deliberate, and settled on Will's hip. Warm and solid through his gi pants.

Will's breath caught. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Bernard's thumb pressed against his hipbone. Will shivered.

Bernard's other hand slid up Will's back. Firm. Possessive. The heat of his palm burning against Will's bare skin.

The air between them felt electric. Charged. Will could feel the bass from the music thrumming through the tile beneath them, through his knees, through his bones. Bernard's pupils were blown wide, his breathing uneven. The blue light from the lockers cast shadows across his face, made his eyes look darker.

Will couldn't move. Couldn't think. Just felt. The solid weight of Bernard beneath him. The heat radiating off his skin. The way his chest rose and fell. The pulse visible at his throat.

Bernard pulled.

Not hard. But insistent. Bringing Will down closer, until there was barely any space between them. Until Will could feel Bernard's breath against his mouth. Until he could see nothing but blue-gray eyes and want.

"Bernard..." Will's voice shook.

"Say yes," Bernard said quietly. Not a demand. A question. His hand was still on Will's back, holding him there, but not forcing. Waiting.

Will's brain was screaming at him. This was insane. This was Bernard Thompson, the guy who'd made his life hell. The guy he'd just been yelling at. The guy he hated.

Except he didn't hate him. The realization settled over Will with uncomfortable clarity. He'd never hated him. He'd been confused by him, frustrated by him, thrown off balance by him. But hate? No.

"Yes," Will heard himself say.

Bernard closed the distance and kissed him.

It was nothing like Will expected. Not tentative or questioning. Hard and sure and demanding, like Bernard had been waiting a year and a half for permission to do this and now that he had it, he wasn't holding back. His hand gripped Will's bare shoulder, dragging him down harder. His mouth was hot and insistent against Will's.

Will made a sound, something between a gasp and a moan, and that seemed to spur Bernard on. He kissed Will like he was trying to consume him, like he'd been starving and Will was the first meal he'd seen in days.

When Bernard pulled back, they were both gasping for air. Will's glasses had gone crooked. His whole body felt like a live wire.

"Still yes?" Bernard asked, and his voice had gone even rougher, darker.

"Yes."

Bernard's hand slid from Will's back to his wrist. Gripped it firmly. Guided it down between their bodies. Pressed Will's palm against the front of his sweatpants.

Even through the fabric, Will could feel how hard he was. Hot and thick and straining. Bernard's hips rolled up into the pressure and he made a sound low in his throat.

Bernard helped him slide his hand past the waistband, past the band of his boxer briefs. Bare skin. Will wrapped his fingers around Bernard's shaft, feeling the weight and heat of it.

Bernard's head fell back against the tile. His hips jerked up.

He pulled Will down into a kiss, messier than the first, desperate. His tongue slid against Will's and Will whimpered, overwhelmed. The taste. The feel of Bernard, rigid and thick in his palm. The sounds.

Bernard's hand tightened around Will's wrist, guiding him into movement.

That was it. The last moment of instruction.

Then there were no more words. Just heavy breathing and the wet sound of Will's hand moving, the slap of skin, Bernard's groans echoing off the tile. Will stroked him hard and fast, Bernard's hips bucking up to meet every movement, his other hand gripping Will's bare side, pulling him closer.

It was a whirlwind. Overwhelming. Too much sensation all at once. The heat of Bernard's dick in his hand, the desperate sounds he was making, the way his whole body was straining toward release. Will couldn't think, couldn't process, just kept moving his hand the way Bernard needed him to.

Bernard's breathing went ragged. His grip on Will turned bruising. His back arched off the tile and his mouth fell open on a silent gasp, and then he was coming, pulsing hot and wet over Will's hand, his whole body shuddering through it.

The music played on overhead, the only sound breaking the silence now. That slow, distorted voice echoing through the empty space.

Bernard pushed Will off him. Sat up. Pulled his clothes back into order with quick, jerky movements. Grabbed his bag from where it had spilled across the floor, shoved his scattered belongings back inside. Stood.

He looked down at Will for a second, something unreadable crossing his face.

"Lock up when you're done," he said, his voice rough.

Then he was gone.

The door swung shut.

Will sat there on the tile floor, knees pulled up, one hand braced on his thigh. The music kept playing, the bass vibrating through the floor.

He looked down at his hand.

Sticky and warm. White and viscous.

His stomach flipped and his heart detonated.