Temp doesn't have to wait long.

Gavin sweeps into the room like an oncoming storm, lightning flashing in the amber of his eyes. He's here to blow off steam.

His attention trains on the punching bags at one end of the gym, fists curled, but shifts as he spots movements from the weight-lifting benches. Recognition is instant, and Gavin pivots to cross the room in a few long strides.

"Even I won't kick a man on his back, Temp."

It's an invitation matched by a razor-edged smirk.

The weight is dropped with a loud thump back into place. Grunting, Temp sits up.

A brow is raised at Cillian Quinn at the offer, eyes snaking up and down the Underboss.

He let's out a laugh as he lunges, aiming low, smile just as sharp.

Well. Invitation accepted.

Like what you see?

It's what he might've said once, light with laughter — now, there's something that holds him back, an ache in the hollow of his chest.

Expecting the attack, he sidesteps and feints a left hook before ducking to jab for the ribs. They don't fight fair, and Gavin looks to hook his leg around the other's calf to unbalance him.

A shark scenting blood in the water.

Temp snaps his eyes up to Cillian Quinn's face, quick.

He takes the punch, powers through, tries to use his loss of balance as his advantage, barring down another slug with weight behind it.

Their eyes meet, and Gavin feels a sharp spike of adrenaline.

It's not enough to dodge the punch, not even when he knows it's coming. Temp's fist connects hard with his jaw and snaps his head back, staggering him. Pain blossoms familiar and sweet, a rush like no other.

The twisted snarl on Gavin's lips morphs to a grin.

"That the best you can do?"

He assumes a defensive stance, prowling.

"Oh, you wish, babe." Is growled out in a flirty purr, a small wink given.

Then he lunges, body low, arms open. Not a hit but a shoulder check, the tackle mean to take them to the ground is Temp connects.

He always had better luck when his partners were on their backs.

It's normal for them, the casual flirting. Ordinarily, Gavin would think little of it as he taunts and teases in return, but there's something about the purr in Temp's voice that catches him off guard for the first time in years.

He's startled enough that the tackle knocks him off balance, his back hitting the ground hard and driving the air from his lungs.

He wheezes, already scrabbling to regain control despite the shortness of his breath.

Usually Temp would haul back, try to beat in a face until it was bloody under his knuckles.

It's a raw thrill, the high of adrenaline.

This time Temp goes for wrists, tries to pin them over Cillian Quinn's head as he bares down his weight.

A low chuckle, slow and warm, leaves his chest.

"You're off your game today, Gavvie."

His wrists are pinned by a firm grip.

Temp straddles him, crushing weight making it hard to draw full breaths. He fights the hold irrationally at first, struggling out of instinct before his training kicks in.

If your wrists are pinned, you can escape like this—

Temp's low chuckle offsets a sharp stab of pain in his chest — emotional, not physical.

In a flash, Gavin snaps his arms down, sharp, lifting his hips to throw off Temp's balance as he breaks the grip. He brings his arms back up to establish a new grip, flipping them over to regain control.

"Am I?"

There's a breathless quality to his growl.

A grunt as air is knocked out of him.

But he grins, sharp and wild, even while under the other's hold.

It's risky, but-

Temp is flexible.

A leg lifts, bends tries to wedge firm against Cillian Quinn's chest, under the arms, pull back to try and wiggle free.

It's a vulnerable position if he fucks it up, Gavin reacts too fast.

He forgets, sometimes, that Temp has a greater degree of flexibility than most of his sparring partners.

It's what allows Temp enough of a window to pull it off, destabilizing Gavin's position and allowing him to scramble free. There's a moment of frustration before Gavin grins, amber eyes glittering.

"Slippery little shit." It's amused.

He takes the opportunity to get back to his feet, challenging.

"If I don't keep you on your toes, who will?" A smirk, tilt of head, and he lifts his fists, squares his shoulders.

A more defensive position, unusual as Temp usually preferred to attack.

"Come on, babe. Warm ups over."

"Mm, I'm sure I could find a replacement."

He begins to settle back into old comforts, canines flashing sharp.

Gavin is more comfortable on the defensive, and it seems Temp is well aware; he taunts, beckoning, and Gavin searches for an opening.

He feints once, twice, goes for a hard shove before a shot to the gut.