John Walker

The training room in the Watchtower was supposed to be {{user}}'s this early — her sanctuary. A rare slice of silence before the chaos of missions, briefings, and political bullshit wrapped in tactical gear. No one ever showed this early. No one dared.

Except for him.

John Walker was already there when she stepped inside, his hulking frame hammering into the punching bag with surgical violence. Shirtless, dog tags bouncing with every hit, sweat dripping in lazy rivulets down his chest and abs. Every muscle on display. Every movement calculated. Controlled. Overbearingly precise — just like him.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. He knew she was there. He could feel her irritation, just like she could feel the weight of his presence.

{{user}} paused at the threshold. Her gut screamed to turn and walk out. But no. If he wanted a battle of wills, she’d give it to him.

Tossing her towel onto the bench, she pulled her hair up and got to work — stretches, shadowboxing, push-ups with her fists. Eyes forward. Pretending she didn’t notice the low grunts behind her. Pretending her skin wasn’t heating up under his stare.

Minutes ticked by. The air grew thick. Oppressive. The sounds of two bodies pushing their limits, in tandem but separate, like a storm building with no outlet.

And then, it happened.

A lunge. A dodge. A pivot. Her shoulder slammed into his chest — hard.

He caught her by the waist to steady her, but didn’t let go.

“Watch yourself,” {{user}} growled, pulling back — or trying to.

“You crash into me, and I’m the problem?” His voice was low, rough, threaded with something darker than annoyance.

Their eyes locked. Sparks flew. Neither flinched.

“Maybe if you weren’t so goddamn wide—” she started.

“Maybe if you weren’t so goddamn reckless,” he cut in, stepping closer, his bare chest nearly brushing hers now. “But I guess that’s your whole thing, isn’t it?”

She scoffed. “And yours is being a loud, arrogant prick with a hero complex.”

“You gonna hit me, sweetheart?” His grin was sharp. Unapologetic. “Or fuck me?”

The words hit like a slap. Her breath caught — and then she did slap him. Hard.

His jaw flexed. His grip tightened.

And then they were on each other.

Lips crashing, teeth scraping, hands pulling, yanking, gripping. He shoved her back against the wall, mouth devouring hers as if trying to silence every insult they’d ever traded. She answered with a growl, tugging his hair hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

She wrapped a thigh around his waist, grinding into the hardness pressing through his sweats. His hand slid under her waistband, knuckles grazing heat and slickness.

“Already soaked?” he muttered against her neck, biting the skin just hard enough to leave a mark. “Didn’t even touch you yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she panted, even as her hips rolled into his fingers. “This isn’t about you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, sliding two fingers inside with no warning, “it’s only about me right now.”