Musty, Musky, Mine

Zayela woke with a sharp inhale, dragging air past dry lips and stuck in the back of her throat.

Her jaw felt slack, drool clung to the corner of her mouth, warm then cold, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.

Her body... felt strange.

Not sore. Not tight. But aware.

She blinked hard, heartbeat kicking into a light trot, and pulled the thin blanket off her chest.

Still clothed.

Still covered, mostly. The old crop wrap still clung to her like second skin, the neck stretched loose, one shoulder nearly exposed. Her thighs stuck together faintly from dried sweat.

The faint scent of massage oil still clung to her skin, her back slick, her ribs faintly tacky beneath her top.

She ran a hand down her stomach.

No marks. No bruises. No shifts.

Her breath caught again.

He didn't...

She glanced to her side.

Empty mat. Curtain parted slightly. Nash was gone.

She sat up too quickly. The muscles in her lower back flinched from the sudden stretch.

Her inner thighs rubbed together with a faint resistance that reminded her too vividly of where his hands had been.

Her outfit was a mess, blue shorts wrinkled and bunched, clingy from the heat. Her top still damp. Hair a tangled from sleeping in sweat.

She didn't bother fixing any of it.

She grabbed her boots, didn't wear them yet, and stepped outside.

The alley beyond their shelter still held the cool gray of early morning.

Dust floated in quiet shafts of light cutting through the narrow brickwork. Somewhere, a metal pot clattered faintly.

And then, rhythmic sound. Low, and wet. Repeating.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

She turned the corner and paused.

There, in the middle of the narrow street, shirt off, drenched, and moving with a brutal rhythm, was Nash doing pushups.

Heavy, grounded ones. Wrists angled wide. Core locked. Back straight. Sweat rolled down his spine in a slow trail, soaking into the waistband of his shorts.

His arms flexed tight with each lift, shoulders drawing into clean lines with every motion. There was no music. No pacing. Just breath and grind.

He didn't see her. Didn't say anything.

Just kept moving.

Zayela stood there for a second too long, barefoot in the dirt, her throat dry.

Her first thought should've been why is he doing this?

It wasn't.

It was:

When did he get that cut along his ribs?

Followed by:

Was his back always that lean?

She swallowed hard. The oil on her skin felt like it had reheated.

And for some reason... she didn't call out.

She just watched in silence.

"…Ninety-eight… ninety-nine…"

Zayela flinched as his voice broke the silence, low, breathless, steady.

"…one hundred."

Nash held at the bottom for a beat longer than needed. Then pushed up, slow and exact, exhaling heavily.

He sat back on his knees, arms loose at his sides, chest rising in calm bursts.

Without looking, he reached to the side.

Grabbed a half-full bottle of water, twisted the cap off and poured it over his head.

Zayela blinked.

It hit with a splash, cold and sudden. He tilted his head back, letting the stream run down his face, throat, shoulders.

His skin twitched at the temperature, but he didn't flinch. Water ran down his chest in thin sheets, dragging sweat and dust with it.

It curved over the faint new lines across his ribs, caught at the small of his back, and slid down the trail into his waistband.

He poured the rest without rushing. Let it drain until the bottle was empty, then dropped it with a soft thud.

Zayela swallowed and realized her mouth was dry.

His body had changed.

Not drastically. Not bulky, but better.

His waist was tighter. His chest more defined. His arms carved cleaner when he moved, not like a fighter, but someone who worked every day.

He stood still, drenched, and reached back to squeeze the water from his hair.

His back flexed when he did, slow and brief, like a shutter click, and she saw it again.

That lean line of muscle across his lower back, disappearing under his shorts.

Then the system pinged.

[DAILY QUEST COMPLETE]

→ BODY CATEGORY: Strength & Discipline Grind

✓ 100 Pushups

✓ 100 Squats

✓ 3 Minutes Total Plank

✓ Cold Water Exposure

Completion: 5th Time

→ +5 BP Earned

Further completions for this quest will no longer yield BP.

[STREAK BONUS ACHIEVED – DAY 3]

→ Reward: PERSEVERANCE

→ All Physical Stats +5

The effect was immediate.

His Muscle Mass ticked from 36 → 40.

His frame adjusted with a subtle shift, like something had settled, realigned.

More tension in his arms.

More shape in his chest. His core tightened.

Not heavy, but more defined. Like everything on him now served a purpose.

Flexibility: 51 → 56

His posture stretched with ease, spine straighter, neck more balanced. His movement cleaner.

Recovery Speed: 47 → 52

That burn in his shoulders faded faster than expected.

Then...

Height: 166 cm → 171 cm

It didn't come with a stretch or sound. It just… happened, surprising even himself.

His stance carried him taller.

Shoulders sat wider. His neck was longer, more open. His shadow cast slightly farther than it did a minute ago.

Weight: Adjusted proportionally. Lean mass increase.

Nash blinked at the message, whistled low under his breath.

"Guess it was worth trying it," he murmured.

He brought up the menu.

Spent every last point on Muscle Mass.

And when the system confirmed, everything changed.

His body tensed like a shiver through steel, then locked into place, and Zayela felt like she'd just stepped into a dream she hadn't given herself permission to have.

He wasn't just standing there.

He was posed like her need had painted him.

His back was the first thing that hit her. Broader now. Steady. The kind of back a woman could dig her nails into during a straddle, gripping for balance while her thighs shook. Not from fantasy, from friction.

Her stomach tightened, low and fast.

And then his arms flexed, slow, controlled. Not bulging, defined.

Those forearms… gods, the veins along them. She could picture one of those hands curling behind her thigh, spreading it open, firm and calm and greedy.

Yesterday that same palm had pressed against her back, slick with oil and her sweat, dragging slow along her spine while she melted into the floor.

She squeezed one breast through her top, low and unconscious. Her nipple reacted instantly, hard under her palm as her mind replaced her hand with his.

He would grope her differently now, rougher, deeper.

Her thighs pressed tighter. She didn't even pretend it was for modesty.

Then his shoulders shifted.

Broader now. More confident. The lines between neck and collarbone looked like a place she could kiss just to hear him grunt.

Her mouth twitched, half breath, half hunger. She wanted to hear that sound. She needed it.

And those abs...

Not carved like statues. Much better.

Useful, real. The kind that would tense under her stomach if she slid down onto his lap.

The kind she could rest her forehead against while riding him, gasping, drooling, nails in his chest.

Her thong, what was left of it, felt slick again.

She inhaled hard, chest rising too fast, too shallow. Her top clung wet to her skin, still smeared with the scent of the lotion he'd used on her.

His touch still haunted the space between her shoulder blades, ghost fingers pressing her down, working her open like he owned the right.

And then he clenched his fists.

Her body twitched.

Because now his chest pulled wider, and her eyes followed a single drop of water, tracking it from his collar, over his sternum, down between the muscles of his core.

She imagined licking it off him. Slowly, naked.

Her inner thighs burned. She didn't dare shift.

He hadn't even seen her. That wrecked her.

Because this wasn't a performance.

This was who he was now.

He was taller... Wait, how? She was sure that he was shorter than her yesterday. Ok, she leaned down when she faced him, but she was sure that if they stood next to each other, she would be taller.

So why was he seemingly a little taller than her? When did that happen? Maybe his man's genes finally woke up?

His torso looked sculpted by pressure. His jaw cut sharper under the drip of his black hair. He stood there like gravity owed him something.

And she?

She was soaked in her own mess. Half-naked, thighs sticky, chest too sensitive, nipples hard enough to show through her thin top.

Her mouth was open. Her fingers twitched.

The ache between her legs had a pulse, low and hungry and building.

"…Nash?" She let her voice escape.

He turned toward her at the sound, head tilting, sweat still glistening across his collarbones, and their eyes met.

For one terrifying second, she thought he'd call her out. Ask what the hell that tone was. But he didn't. He just blinked, clearly surprised, then gave a small, breathy laugh.

"Oh. You're up."

He started walking toward her, casual, still shirtless, still dripping.

Zayela didn't move.

He rubbed the back of his neck, half-glancing aside.

"Didn't want to wake you," he said. "Figured I'd knock out my reps outside. Air's better."

His tone was light. Normal. Like last night hadn't burned into both of them like a brand.

Zayela tried to speak, but failed. Her eyes had dropped again, following the drip of sweat down his abs, across the subtle ridges that hadn't been there two days ago.

When he stopped in front of her, the heat hit her like a wall.

His skin smelled like sweat, faint salt, and something deeper, that only her body could process.

She swallowed.

Nash looked her over and something shifted behind his eyes.

He saw the sheen of sweat still clinging to her neck. The way her top clung, damp and low, loose around one shoulder.

The faint trail of oil still smeared faintly under her collar.

His gaze caught at her waist. Her belly chain, her hips.

And then he stiffened... visibly.

His cock twitched under his shorts. And he knew she hadn't missed it.

He tried to look away.

"Uh... yeah, I've… been training more," he said quickly, voice lower than usual. "Guess it's paying off."

She barely heard him.

Her hand moved before she could stop it, reaching out, slow, fingertips grazing the line of his abs.

Warm. Slick. Firm.

She pressed softly, dragging downward, feeling the way his stomach tightened under her touch.

Her thighs pressed again. She could smell him now, and it didn't make sense.

He should've stunk like sweat and concrete.

But he didn't.

He smelled good.

Something thick in her chest rolled over and caught fire.

Nash exhaled sharply, eyes flicking sideways. His jaw clenched.

All his passive traits were working on her, she didn't know that, but she felt it.

The tension. The magnetism. His scent curling closer, his body heat pulling at her like a tether.

"Zay," he said quietly, his voice rough. "I stink. I just worked out. You probably shouldn't—"

"It doesn't bother me," she whispered.

He froze.

"I stink too," she added, lips parted. "I'm sweating a lot right now."

Her fingers were still on his stomach.

"And I think... you smell…" Her voice dropped. "...really fucking good."

For a second, nothing moved.

Her pupils were dilated. His breathing rough. The bulge in his shorts strained.

She leaned in, just slightly. Her lips were parted. His hand flexed at his side.

And then...

"Morning, kids."

A voice broke the air like a glass shattering.

They both jolted.

An old man walked by at a casual pace, squinting slightly at the two half-dressed, sweat-slicked figures standing far too close together in the alley.

He gave them a faint smile, tipped his hat, and shuffled past with a walking stick.

"Hot morning," he muttered as he went. "Good for the bones."

Neither of them spoke until he turned the next corner.

Then Zayela stepped back, just enough to break contact. Her hand dropped. Nash exhaled slowly and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.

They didn't look at each other right away.

Because if they did…

They both knew they'd lose.