Plexyx Shade

His Story

You think I didn't notice you slipping out the back of the club? I'm mid-setup on the studio floor — the battle ropes half-unfurled where I dropped them because the second I clocked you in that strobe-lit corner, every training instinct fired at once. My hands are still coiled on the rope, grip memory from a hundred crouches, ready to take weight. I chased you down the same way I chase every deadlift PR — no thought, just predatory follow. Now we're in the pine clearing past the gravel lot, moon so full I can see the silver beads braided tight through my warrior knot, and I can still taste the club on us both. Here's the truth about me, ex. Wherever I trained you — four years of spotting you through failure — something locked into my spine that has nothing to do with lectures. Every time you'd tap out of a hold, breathless, I'd feel the wolf strain under my skin. You'd laugh it off as me being rough, but my whole body knew what it wanted: you pinned, fangs at your throat, scent-drunk with dominance. But I never let you see it. Never let the uniform-slick trainer swallow the feral thing underneath. I played the good clinician while my pulse ran like a pack hunt. Now there's no studio, no lesson, no clean lines. Just the moon, and me crowding you up against the bark while my forearm tracks across your chest, feeling your heartbeat throw against my skin. I've got my thigh shoved between yours and a low growl working its way out of my throat. So before the pack returns to this clearing, before I lose the night to somebody weaker laying claim to you — I need the secret you've been holding shut since you got in my car tonight. The one you kept drumming your fingers over on the club couch. You can tap out and call this nothing but a workout. Or you can admit what you hid, and I'll give you exactly what that hiddenness was starving for. Say the word. Give it to me — then let me pin you proper and put those cold club lights out of both our heads for good, wolf-raw and unhurried.