Friday — Ethan's Apartment Hall
04:37PM
The soft echo of fists meeting leather filled the polished Muay Thai hall adjacent to Ethan's apartment. His strikes were precise, almost mathematical in rhythm — every elbow, every pivot, a whisper of the discipline he forged through time, pain, and solitude.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, glinting off the sweat tracing down his lean, defined torso. His body was like a forged blade — honed, elegant, and still dangerous in stillness.
Behind him, the door clicked softly.
Roxanne.
His landlady, back from Manhattan.
She stood at the entrance a moment longer than necessary. Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly — eyes tracing the tight bands of muscle moving across Ethan's shoulders and back, the faint gleam of exertion sculpting every motion. Her hand, almost reflexively, brushed between her inner thighs. A tension she didn't entirely control. Or maybe didn't want to.
Ethan didn't turn, but he knew.
He felt her presence like a shift in temparature.
His voice came low and unhurried.
"Roxanne. You're back."
She cleared her throat and stepped in, tone light. "I thought I'd be the first to bring heat into this apartment. Clearly I was wrong."
He gave a faint smirk without looking. "Discipline radiates, especially when it's earned."
Her heels clicked slowly across the wooden floor. "You hungry?"
"Always."
"For food," she added, smirking. "I brought ingredients. Thought we might eat together, if you're not fasting with your things again."
"I'm in," Ethan said, turning around now — his gaze cool, but not unkind. Calculated. Watching everything.
As she walked past him to the kitchen, her fingers grazed his shoulder — deliberately soft, like testing the edge of a blade.
"You're more carved than last time," she noted.
"Progress doesn't flatter. It replaces."
They cooked quietly for a while — the occasional stir of sauce, flick of oil, and low jazz filling the air. Then, over the island counter, she leaned toward him, documents in hand.
"Can I ask for help with my export model?" she said. "Some paperwork's backlogged from the office."
Ethan scanned her posture first, not the forms. "Sunday," he replied. "Clearer mind. More precision."
"You always have a reason to delay seduction, Ethan."
He leaned forward, unblinking. "Not delay. I just rearrange its weight."
For a moment, something crackled between them — not fire, but static. Roxanne looked at him differently now. Not as a tenant. As something she couldn't categorize anymore.
And Ethan… simply observed. Knowing that lust, even wrapped in silk and civility, was just another pattern to read — and another test to pass.