The fire outside had burned down to glowing embers, casting the occasional flicker of light through the flap of the tent. The hum of insects had dulled, replaced by the gentle rustle of trees in the night wind. Inside the tent, things were much warmer — both in temperature and tension.
Tristan had just pulled off his boots, flexing his aching feet after another long day of travel and sparring. The others had gone to sleep after dinner, the air thick with the usual post-training fatigue. Bao had volunteered for an extra round of sparring with him — not because she needed it, but because she said she wanted to work out some "energy."
But it wasn't just the match that had left him sore.
Ever since Bao had confessed her feelings, things had changed.
She was bolder now. She didn't just follow him around camp — she climbed into his lap at dinner. She didn't just nuzzle his neck to "get comfortable" anymore — she used it as an excuse to press her chest into him and breathe slowly near his ear, smirking when his voice cracked. Her strength, already intimidating, had become something she flaunted — lifting heavy crates one-handed when the others were watching, cracking trees in half with a single punch during training, and always, always glancing at him afterward like she was waiting for him to comment.
It made him flustered. Embarrassed. A little overwhelmed.
It also made his heart race.
Tonight, though, she was on another level.
He'd just sat down when she stepped through the tent flap without a word. She ducked her head beneath the canvas roof and stood tall — taller than him by a solid half-foot — wearing only a black sports bra and low-slung shorts. Her fur was still damp from washing off the sweat of battle, the white strands of her mane slicked back behind her shoulders. Her crimson eyes locked onto his.
Tristan froze.
"Bao—?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she stepped forward with slow, deliberate strides, dropping to her knees in front of him, her heavy thighs brushing his as she pushed him gently onto his back. Before he could say a word, she swung her leg over and straddled his waist in one smooth motion, planting her hands on either side of his shoulders and pinning him to the mat beneath her weight.
Her breath was hot. Her body even hotter.
"You owe me," she said, voice low and smoky.
He blinked up at her. "For what?"
"Recovery." Her fingers trailed down his chest, claw tips grazing his shirt. "Full-body massage."
"I—what—right now?"
She smirked. "You think I asked?"
His throat went dry.
She grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, revealing his chest inch by inch, her palms skimming across his skin. Her hands were calloused, strong, yet gentle. She dug her thumbs into his shoulders, massaging the tension there with practiced ease — and just enough pressure to make him gasp.
"See?" she whispered, leaning in close. "I'm helping."
His face flushed. "You're not even the one getting the massage—"
"Not yet." She winked.
Her thumbs pressed into his ribs, then slid down to his sides, where she traced slow circles with her claws. Every movement sent a jolt through him, not of pain — but of heat. His body arched against hers involuntarily as her weight shifted atop him, her thighs squeezing around his hips. He could feel every inch of her: the curve of her abs, the soft weight of her chest brushing his, the damp warmth radiating from between her legs.
Her nose brushed his. "You're squirming."
"You're heavy," he said weakly.
"You like it."
She wasn't wrong.
She leaned down, lips ghosting over his ear. "You think I don't notice how you look at me? How red your face gets when I press into you? How you try so hard not to stare at my chest?"
"I'm not a perv—!"
"I want you to look."
Her hips rolled, and his gasp was immediate.
"I like when your eyes are on me," she whispered, lips brushing his cheek now. "I like that I'm the one you trained with today. That I'm the one who made you sweat. That I'm the one on top of you now."
His hands found her waist, gripping instinctively. Her fur was damp, her skin burning underneath. She moved again, just a little, just enough.
"Bao…" he warned.
She smiled. "You're still tense."
She pressed down, grinding slowly, her breath hot against his neck. "Let me help."
Tristan's eyes fluttered closed.
"Okay," he whispered.
"Good boy," she purred.
She didn't need a reply. Her tail curled around his thigh, anchoring her in place as she claimed every inch of space on top of him, making sure he knew exactly whose trainer he was.