Heavy grunts, rhythmic breathing; and he still hears her boots thudding dulling on the worn wooden floor. He doesn't look up from his fists, but the slight turn on his head tells her that he is aware of her, leaning against the doors frame. He pushes off from the floor; his fists clenched tightly, his back straight as he rises. He wears only a pair of ratty sweatpants. The gray fabric is stained with things better left unsaid, so many holes it's a wonder that there is enough material left to classify them as pants. Yet he wears them, time and time again, as he pushes off his habitual 300 push-ups every morning.
He smirks as she runs her eyes over his body, he is well aware of her scrutiny. She lingers over the scars, bruises and scratches. They travel over his tough skin, stretched over the inclines of hard muscles. There doesn't seem to be an inch of spare fat anywhere on his body, his arms quiver slightly. He finishes his last push and allows his body to lie flat against the concrete of the back porch, cool against his sweaty chest and cheek. His eyes flicker up to her, following the tips of her boots, over ripped and patched jeans, her tiny tank-top and the braid that rests over her shoulder. His swamp green eyes meet her muddy brown, then they linger over the bruise high on her cheek and the cut over her left eyebrow. It isn't bleeding anymore, but she sees the concern as he gets to his feet.
His hand reaches up to wipe away blood, to linger on her cheekbone, gently. He kisses her other cheek and pulls her into the kitchen. He wets a paper towel and shoves her into a chair, patting the blood carefully away. Her eyes rest on the middle of his torso, his chest glimmers with sweat, her hands reach out to rest on his hips. The lines of his hip bones jut out; creating a deep crevice that disappears into his waist band. The elastic around his waist is so worn that the pants rest carelessly over his hips. One stray push…
He pulls her up to her feet, knowing exactly what she is thinking as he smirks, and then leads her out of the kitchen. He pulls her up the stairs, only the tips of his fingers touching hers, but she'll follow where his leads, as long as it's where she's going anyway.
He suddenly tugs her into his arms, trapping her hands against his chest as his fingers curl around her waist. He backs her up until she falls into bed, he lets her go and bends to untie her boots and fling them across the room. He unhooks her jeans and peels them from her hips, frowning slightly at the bruises on her legs, kissing them gently like he did her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed, she sighs.
He flips the cool sheet over her body and as she open her eyes, confused, she hears the sound of the bedroom door closing, and he's going down the stairs.