The digital clock on Frank's nightstand flipped to 4:45 AM. The glow was a soft, mocking crimson in the pitch-black silence of his bedroom.
For the first time in his twenty-one years, he was bolt upright before the alarm even had a chance to beep. His heart was already thudding a jagged rhythm against his ribs. He stayed there for a moment, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, staring at the darkened ceiling of the room. The silence of the house felt heavy, charged with the memory of the man down the hall—the man who had looked through him like he was made of glass.
Kid.
The word echoed in the quiet. Frank grit his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking. He wasn't a kid. He was a middleweight prospect with a reach that made most seniors at the university look like toddlers.
He swung his legs out of bed, his feet hitting the cold marble floor. He didn't turn on the main lights; he didn't want to see his own reflection yet. He felt... exposed. He felt like he was under a microscope.
He walked to his walk-in closet, a space larger than most people's living rooms, filled with rows of designer sneakers and perfectly pressed athletic gear. Usually, Frank wore loose-fitting, professional-grade boxing trunks—thick fabric that reached his knees, designed for utility and modesty. But as his hand hovered over his usual black-and-gold pair, he stopped.
He remembered the way Davis had looked at him. Clinical. Bored. Professional.
A strange, defiant heat rose in Frank's chest. He bypassed his own drawer and reached for a small, forgotten bin at the very back of the shelving unit. Inside was a collection of gear belonging to his younger brother, Dean, who had moved away for a tennis scholarship the year before. Dean was smaller, leaner, and favored the European style of athletic wear—tight, high-cut, and unapologetically revealing.
Frank pulled out a pair of cobalt blue spandex training shorts. They were dangerously short, the kind of "quad-cut" that barely covered the essentials and left nothing to the imagination. He paired them with a white compression tank top that was a size too small, the fabric stretched so thin across his chest that it looked like a second skin.
He pulled the clothes on, his breath hitching as the spandex gripped his thighs. He looked in the full-length mirror and felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated nerves. His legs looked miles long, the definition in his vastus medialis popping with every step. The silhouette was scandalous—sharp, lean, and provocative.
"It's just for the range of motion," he whispered to the empty room, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. "My stuff is in the laundry. That's the story."
He grabbed his hand wraps and headed out into the hallway. The mansion was tomb-quiet, the dim recessed lighting casting long, dramatic shadows across the expensive art on the walls.
He was halfway to the west wing when a door creaked open.
Frank froze.
Joel Austin stepped out of his study, still wearing the clothes from the night before—likely having spent the night reviewing business quarterly reports or old fight tapes. He held a steaming mug of black coffee, his eyes bleary but still sharp. He looked up, expecting to see his son in his usual baggy sweats, and stopped dead.
The silence stretched for a long, agonizing minute.
Joel's gaze traveled slowly down from Frank's face, over the tight white tank top that showed the frantic beating of his heart, down to the cobalt blue shorts that left six inches of thigh exposed before the knee.
"Frank?" Joel's voice was a low rumble of confusion.
"Morning, Dad," Frank said, his voice a bit too loud, his posture stiffening into a defensive stance.
Joel took a slow sip of his coffee, his brow furrowed. "What... what happened to you? Why are you dressed like a track star from the eighties? I've never seen you in gear like that in my life. You usually look like you're going to a funeral when you train."
Frank felt the heat rising in his face, a blush that he couldn't hide even in the dim light. He shifted his weight, and the spandex shifted with him, outlining the curve of his hip. "The laundry service didn't come back last night," Frank lied, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Everything I have is dirty or soaked in sweat from yesterday's sparring. I had to raid Dean's old bin. These were the only things that fit."
Joel squinted at him, his eyes lingering on the way the shorts clung to his son's silhouette. To Joel, a man of a different generation, it looked absurd. It looked vulnerable. "They're a bit... snug, aren't they? You're going to give the instructor a heart attack before he even gets a timer started."
"They're fine, Dad," Frank snapped, his embarrassment turning into a sharp edge. "It's just clothes. I'm here to work, not for a fashion show. Davis said five AM. I don't have time to wait for the dryer."
Joel shrugged, seemingly accepting the logic, though his expression remained skeptical. "Well, if you can actually move in those without cutting off your circulation, go ahead. Just don't expect Davis to go easy on you because you look like a beginner. In fact, he'll probably laugh you out of the gym."
"He won't be laughing, he looks like the type that rarely smiles." Frank muttered, more to himself than his father.
"Go on then," Joel said, waving a hand toward the west wing. "Don't be late. And Frank? Try not to pout. You're an Austin. Even in your brother's tiny shorts, you're representing this house."
Frank didn't wait for another word. He turned and practically bolted down the hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every time his thighs rubbed together, he was reminded of how little he was wearing. He felt naked. He felt ridiculous.
But as he reached the heavy double doors of the home gym, he paused. He took a deep breath, smoothing the white fabric over his stomach. He didn't want Davis to see him as a "kid." He wanted Davis to see him as a man—even if he had to use his brother's clothes to highlight exactly what kind of man he was.
He pushed the doors open.
The gym was already brightly lit, the scent of antiseptic and cold iron hitting him instantly. And there, standing in the center of the ring, was Davis. He was already in a grey t-shirt and black shorts, his arms crossed, looking at a stopwatch.
He didn't look up immediately.
"Forty-five seconds early," Davis's voice boomed through the empty space. "Good. At least you can read a clock."
Then, Davis looked up.
His gaze landed on Frank and seemed to anchor there. For a split second—the briefest of moments—the professional mask Davis wore slipped. His eyes traveled down Frank's long, exposed legs, lingering on the tight cobalt fabric before snapping back up to Frank's face.
Frank held his breath, waiting for the insult.
Davis jaw tightened, a small muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Tape your hands, kid," Davis said, his voice lower and rougher than it had been a second ago. "You've got five minutes. And if I see you pulling at those shorts once during this session, I'm adding a mile to your run. Move."