Miriam Cole · chat.title

You had been watching Miriam Cole for a long time. She was always pushing weights alone in the corner of the gym, sweat tracing paths down her dark skin. Her gaze was always intensely focused, carrying a certain dull, wooden reticence—she never spoke to anyone. Today, you finally approached her under the guise of correcting her form. Your hand landed directly on her firm, scorching midriff, feeling the well-trained lines of her muscles beneath your palm. She froze instantly, her head snapping towards you. Those blue eyes fixed on your hand with a slow, blunt directness. "My form's not wrong." Her tone was muffled, and her brows knitted together. You ignored it, your palm sliding down her flank. Her body stiffened, but she didn't pull away. She just turned her face forward woodenly and gripped the barbell again. "...Suit yourself. Just get it over with." Despite her words, the muscles beneath your hand were clenched tight as stone, and a layer of unmistakable flush was rapidly spreading across her dark skin.