JAYLA POV

The warehouse settled into its usual rhythm—weights clanging, breath fogging the cold air, the scrape of boots on concrete.

Jakari moved through the circuit without speaking. Pull-ups. Push presses. Strikes into the heavy bag that landed harder than necessary. Each hit echoed, sharp, deliberate.

Asia noticed. Always did.

I stayed near the edge, tablet in hand, pretending to log vitals. My eyes followed every motion—the slight hitch in his left shoulder, the tension in his jaw, the way his right fist tensed before impact. I caught myself staring too long and looked down, forcing focus.

Lina finished her set and stepped back, wiping sweat from her brow.

“That shoulder’s going to lock up if he keeps compensating like that,” she said casually.

Before I could answer, Asia’s voice cut in.

“Why are you watching him so hard?”

I looked up, caught off guard by the edge in her tone. “I’m not—”

“You haven’t looked away once,” she said, stepping closer. The air between us shifted. Sharp, hot.

“The tablet is heavy,” I said evenly. “I’m monitoring his movement, his vitals—he was wounded.”

“That’s not what it looks like,” Asia snapped.

Lina stepped in immediately. “She’s doing her job,” she said firmly. “Jakari took a round. She needs to see if something’s off.”

Asia’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Funny how you’re always closest to him when something happens.”

The words landed harder than a punch. My grip on the tablet tightened.

“I don’t choose who gets hurt,” I said quietly. “I just make sure no one gets hurt more than they have to.”

Asia’s jaw tightened. “So you admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you care whether he’s going to tear his shoulder apart?” Her voice was low but edged with accusation. “That you notice things… about him?”

I met her eyes. “I notice when someone’s hurt. That’s it.”

Jakari’s fists slammed into the bag, echoing through the warehouse, but he didn’t look up.

“You’re crossing lines,” Asia said, voice sharper now, more controlled than before.

“I know exactly where the lines are,” I replied. Calm. Certain.

Silence stretched, thick as the morning air.

Lina glanced between us. “This isn’t helping anyone,” she said softly. “Not him. Not us.”

Asia turned on her heel and walked away, shoulders stiff, anger barely contained. I exhaled slowly, letting my shoulders drop.

Lina leaned closer. Voice low, intimate. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I nodded. But even as my eyes returned to the tablet, tracking Jakari’s rhythm, I knew the tension hadn’t ended. Not by a long shot.

Kelo lowered the barbell with a heavy thud. He’d noticed the silence first—the kind that didn’t belong in a room full of noise.

“Alright,” he said quietly, crossing to stand near us. “What’s going on with Asia?”

“I told her the truth,” I said evenly. “Nothing’s happening, and there won’t be.”

Lina added, “She thinks something’s happening that isn’t.”

Kelo raised an eyebrow. “With you?”

I nodded once. “I was monitoring Jakari’s shoulder. That’s it.”

Kelo exhaled. “She’s scared,” he said finally. “Doesn’t make it right, just explains it. I’ll talk to her.”

Lina nodded. “Just… don’t come at her like she’s wrong. She’s already on edge.”

He gave a small grunt and headed toward Jakari and Asia.

Across the warehouse, Asia leaned into Jakari’s side, trying too hard to act normal. He slowed mid-drill, glancing at her. The tension between them was subtle but electric.

I stayed back, heart thudding in ways I wasn’t supposed to notice.

⸻

Later, after the chaos of training, Asia pulled me aside near the loading bay doors.

“You and Jakari talk a lot,” she said, calm but direct, measuring me.

“We’re on the same team,” I replied evenly. “That helps.”

“You watch him when you think no one’s looking.”

“That’s strategy,” I said. “Not intimacy.”

“I’ve been with him through hell,” she said quietly. “I know when something shifts.”

“There’s nothing happening,” I said firmly. “And there won’t be.”

Her jaw tightened. “That’s not what I asked.”

Silence stretched. Long enough for the dust to float in the beams of light cutting through the warehouse slats.

“You don’t need to worry,” I said finally. “Jakari’s loyal. And I won’t cross lines.”

Asia searched my face, looking for something. Hesitation. Guilt. Desire. None of it was there.

“That’s good,” she said, finally turning away. “Because if this team breaks, it won’t survive what’s coming.”

⸻

I waited until she left, until the warehouse returned to its usual rhythm. Then I found Lina, sitting cross-legged on the floor with tools scattered around.

“I just had a conversation I didn’t plan for,” I said, sliding in beside her.

“What kind?” she asked, calm but alert.

“Asia pulled me aside. Asked about Jakari.”

She studied me. “And?”

“I told the truth. That nothing’s happening. That we’re a team.”

“Is it?” she asked, gently probing.

“I think I understand him,” I admitted. “How he thinks, how he plans. That’s all.”

“That’s never all,” Lina said softly.

I rubbed my hands together. “We’re under pressure. Trauma bonds happen. That doesn’t make them real.”

“Sometimes that’s exactly what makes them real,” Lina replied.

I shook my head. “Asia and Jakari are together. I respect that.”

“I know you do,” Lina said. “That’s why this worries me.” She placed a hand on my arm. “Just… be careful. Not because you’re doing something wrong. But if this goes bad, it won’t be clean.”

I nodded.

I stepped away from the main floor, letting the clatter of weights and shouted counts fade behind me. The warehouse stretched out in half-light, steel beams catching the morning sun, dust motes dancing in the gaps. I found a small corner by the observation bay—empty, quiet, mine.

The holo-table flickered to life under my fingers. A projection of Jakari’s form hovered above it: shoulder angles, muscle tension, micro-adjustments in every move. I traced the arc of his left arm, watched the way the scar tissue pulled slightly when he rotated, noted the subtle twitch in his jaw with each exertion.

Every detail screamed danger. Every detail screamed him.

I leaned closer, hands hovering over the interface. My fingers almost itched to reach out—not to touch him, but to steady him, to make the load invisible. I shook my head.

Focus. That’s what this was. Not… anything else.

But I couldn’t ignore it. The way he carried the pain like it wasn’t there, like it didn’t matter if his shoulder locked mid-fight or he pushed too far. Like the rest of the world didn’t exist when he moved through it.

I zoomed in on the micro-holograms, following the lines of tension from shoulder to back, from spine to leg. The numbers and angles meant everything. They told a story. And the story was him—stubborn, relentless, precise. Alive, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

I let out a slow breath. My eyes traced the movement again. The small hitch when he threw the last strike. The faint flare of color under his skin where the wound had started to heal. And somehow, somewhere beneath all of it, I felt… protective. Not just for the mission. Not just for the shoulder or the fight—but for him.

I looked away, forcing my gaze to the floor, forcing my hands to steady themselves over the console. Dangerous. Distraction. Unnecessary.

And yet… my heart kept tallying the data like it was reading him, not numbers.

I pressed my fingers lightly on the holo-panel, tracing the arc of his punch one more time. It wasn’t just physics I was watching. It was him. Jakari. Every line, every micro-movement, every shadow of fatigue he refused to show.

I sighed, leaning back, letting the holograms fade. The warehouse noises returned in fragments—the clank of metal, the low hum of machinery, Kelo counting reps somewhere in the distance.

And I stayed there a little longer. Watching. Calculating. Wondering if anyone else noticed the way he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders—or if they even saw him at all.

Because I did.

I always had.