Avara POV
My eyes flutter open, mauve light sifts through, and I wake up fully. The memories are flooding back and I try to only focus on the good one. I scramble out of the cocoon of blankets, dressed in his short-sleeve shirt that comes above my knees. A cluttered desk pressed against the glass railing, atop the table surface is building plans, scrolls of blueprint layouts—the architecture and the interior design inform that it's a house—a very big one. A series of alluring and arousing grunts entices me away from the front, drawing to the side so I can perch my wrists on the spine of the railing. From above, I watch him, Botan's hands are bolted to the bar as he does an untold amount of reps. The pull-up bar rack positioned in front of the far-reaching windows. Taut muscles bunching in his back, rippling with every movement. A gear-churning sound forces my gaze away. Shortly, a man appears, sauntering to Botan, his hair medium length, a bright white gelled back.
