[man-of-sea]

Here is the follow on story of Zoey and Juliya  hope you enjoy the story.
Sunflower's ring

The rhythmic thwack of Zoey's broom against cracked concrete echoed through the damp basement as she banished dust bunnies the size of hamsters back into their subterranean lairs. Sunlight, anemic after its journey through the grimy windows high above, barely penetrated the gloom, illuminating swirling motes in its path. It was a far cry from the gleaming chrome and sun-drenched hardwood floors of the Equinox, but Zoey was determined to make her basement wrestling ring fit for royalty, at least for Juliya's royal Ukrainian self.

A grin stretched across Zoey's face as she wrestled a particularly stubborn cobweb into submission. In less than two weeks, she’d gone from bleary-eyed sports writer drowning in deadlines and lukewarm instant coffee to a creature of pure muscle-bound purpose. All thanks to the gym membership her editor had gifted her after that unfortunate "live tweet while running on a treadmill" incident.

At Equinox, where the aroma of industrial-grade protein powder hung heavy in the air like incense, she’d met Juliya. Tall with hair the color of polished chestnuts and eyes like glacial lakes, Juliya moved through the weight room like a panther stalking prey. A Ukrainian fitness trainer who had made London her home five years ago, she exuded an effortless grace even while deadlifting weights twice Zoey's size.

With her lanky frame honed from years of chain-smoking and bad takeout choices rather than deliberate exercise, Zoey was initially intimidated by Juliya’s sculpted presence. But Juliya, with a smile that could melt glaciers (or at least the apprehension in Zoey’s stomach), had taken her under her wing, patiently correcting form and offering gruff but encouraging tips on everything from bicep curls to breathing techniques. 

Then came the fateful day when mid-squat, Zoey challenged Juliya to a wrestling match.

“You?” Juliya had barked through the clang of iron against iron, eyebrows disappearing into her thick black braids. “For real?”

Flushed and breathless, Zoey had puffed out her chest – which was more impressive than it sounded given the circumstances - and said with the bravado of a woman fuelled by cheap protein shakes, "You think you can take me, sunflower?"

The nickname, meant to be lighthearted, had somehow stuck. “Sunflower” now punctuated Zoey's texts from Juliya like some bizarre, muscle-bound pet name. And now, here she was, wrestling cobwebs and a rogue dumbbell into submission in preparation for their Saturday showdown.

Twenty feet by eighteen.  Zoey paced off the space with measured steps, picturing the two of them grappling amidst a sea of bright yellow foam mats spread like sunshine across the grimy concrete floor. A thin layer of sweat clung to her skin from the relentless spring air filtering through an ancient window unit that rattled like a chain smoker’s cough. She squinted at the dusty, whitewashed walls, picturing how they would look draped with black-and-white fight posters she'd ordered online – maybe even one featuring The Fabulous Moolah if she could find it in time.

The basement was far from perfect, but Zoey had poured her writerly soul into making it hers. It was a space where the weight of deadlines and word counts faded away under layers of paint stripper fumes and the intoxicating scent of iron and sweat. It was a space where a forty-five-year-old woman who had once considered herself past her “prime” could become, for one glorious afternoon, a sunflower ready to tangle with a warrior princess in her little wrestling ring of dreams.

Zoey stood before the full-length mirror tacked onto a door salvaged from a dumpster behind the local hardware store, squinting critically at her reflection. It wasn’t quite the flattering expanse of glass you saw in Equinox’s gleaming locker rooms, but it did the job. She ran a hand over the sculpted ridges that now marked her biceps and triceps, marveling at how foreign those words – “sculpted” and “ridges” – felt coming from her mouth just six weeks ago. 

Her phone buzzed with a text: *Sunflower ready to wrestle?*

“Like a sunflower on fire,” Zoey typed back before shoving a stray strand of blonde hair (permanently escaping its ponytail confines) behind her ear. The question wasn’t about the fight; it was always about the costume. Juliya loved these ritualistic pre-wrestle discussions, dissecting their attire with the seriousness usually reserved for tactical football play calls.

Zoey had narrowed her choices down to two: a cherry red tank top she'd bought on a whim that highlighted her back muscles like a stained-glass window and this vivid orange bikini—the one with the thick straps that hugged her shoulders, the cheeky cut that held everything in place with an almost aggressive determination, the kind of thing that screamed, "I’m not afraid to show you what hard work looks like."

It was a look Juliya would approve of. It wasn't just about being “fit” - though Zoey had certainly achieved that – it was about celebrating the effort, the sweat-soaked hours spent hunched over dumbbells and wrestling her flabby limitations into submission. 

She tugged on the bikini bottoms, which held firm despite her trading in her usual size 12 for a smugly confident size six. They were high enough to cover her full-on mom jeans territory (a phrase that made her snort with laughter) but low enough to show off the hard-earned tan lines sculpted by summer afternoons spent working on her backyard deck, bench pressing dumbbells and listening to podcasts about historical wrestling champions.

She slid the bikini top over her head, feeling the fabric smooth against her tanned skin, which had more than earned its stripes in the past few months. It was a good tan—even toned—not just the haphazardly bronzed patches of someone who'd forgotten sunscreen existed.

Zoey glanced at the clock on the ancient fridge tucked into the corner of the basement like an unwelcome relic from her parent’s kitchen. 2:30 p.m. She needed to shower and get out there – this wasn’t just a match; it was an event. Juliya would be in that teal bikini she wore for her fitness classes, which always looked like liquid sapphire draped over sculpted muscle.  It was daring enough, but with Juliya's fierce grace, it became more regal, almost predatory.

Zoey straightened the straps of the orange bikini and took another look at herself in the dusty mirror. This wasn’t just about holding her own against a Ukrainian warrior princess – this was about showing Juliya that she had built something beautiful beneath all those years of coffee-fueled deadline scrambles and self-deprecating witticisms. Something fierce. A sunflower ready to bloom.  And damn it, if a few strategically placed orange straps didn’t help with the visual impact, well, so much the better.

The shower was lukewarm at best – a tepid handshake from a reluctant water heater that had seen better years – but Zoey embraced its feeble embrace like a long-lost lover.  It was hot enough to steam away the last vestiges of gym chalk clinging to her skin and the faint scent of basement dust that clung stubbornly to the orange bikini she'd laid out on an ancient towel rack fashioned from a repurposed clothesline strung between two mismatched nails hammered into the plaster wall.

She stepped out, towel wrapped around her waist like a toga queen preparing for battle, and caught sight of herself in the mirror again.  The pale skin that usually dominated the landscape of her shoulders had surrendered to a sun-kissed gold that gleamed even under the dim bulb hanging precariously from a cord stretched across two lengths of lumber nailed haphazardly to the joists above.

It wasn’t just the tan but how her muscles looked now – taut and defined against the smooth canvas of tanned flesh. The faint orange lines of the bikini straps disappeared into canvas-like veins, tracing the map of a newly discovered land.  She flexed her biceps, watching as they rippled beneath the fabric, then rotated at the shoulders, pleased with how her traps stood proudly under the thin straps.

A little girl in a very expensive leotard could have pulled off this bikini with nothing more than a healthy dose of self-regard. Zoey was determined to wear it like she owned every inch of that tanned terrain, every sculpted line and ridge, every stubborn bit of dimpling on her stomach that refused to surrender to the tyranny of six-pack perfection. She was forty-five years old, she’d been a sports writer for twenty, and for all those years, she had traded in the comfort of jeans and t-shirts for pencil skirts and blouses because they were professional enough – but never comfortable enough –  for a body that wasn't quite sure what it wanted to be anymore.

She squeezed into her favorite pair of vintage Levi's, high-waisted with just enough distressing around the knees to make them seem like a deliberate choice rather than a casualty of years spent wrestling with deadlines and takeout containers. The denim felt soft against her skin, almost luxurious after days spent in tight-fitting workout gear.  The old jeans were a concession – she was trying hard not to think about Juliya’s teal bikini. It would be like staring into the polished obsidian eyes of a black panther before leaping onto its back for a wild ride through a moonlit forest.

Zoey yanked the denim over her hips, smoothing them with practiced hands. She felt a flicker of anxiety – an old friend who always popped up at unexpected moments -  then shoved it down along with the rest of the day’s anxieties about the upcoming deadline for the “Year in Sports” retrospective she was struggling to write.

The basement door creaked open, releasing Juliya like a warrior goddess from an ancient Greek urn. She stood framed against the faint glow spilling from the hallway above, her teal bikini catching the light in a way that made it seem like liquid turquoise had been poured over sculpted marble.

“Ready to wrestle, sunflower?”  She spoke with a lilting accent that was both husky and melodic. Even standing in Zoey's dimly lit basement, she moved with an almost feline grace – the kind of effortless power that could knock you flat without ever lifting a finger.

Zoey swallowed, feeling her usual sharp-witted retorts wither on the vine like unwatered seedlings.  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she croaked, hoping Juliya didn’t notice the faint tremor in her voice or how her stomach was doing a nervous jiggle dance beneath that surprisingly supportive orange bikini top.

The air in the basement thickened with a tension that had nothing to do with the stifling humidity clinging to Zoey's sweat-dampened skin or even the faint scent of mildew rising from the cracked concrete floor like some ancient gym ghost. It wasn’t just them standing there, stripped down and ready for battle; it was years of expectations tangled up in the cheap orange nylon straps of Zoey’s bikini and woven into the sleek lines of Juliya’s teal two-piece.

Zoey shifted her weight from one foot to the other, flexing a hand around the faded denim waistband of her Levi's as if seeking reassurance from the familiar comfort of well-worn cotton. “Alright,” she said, attempting lightness even though her vocal cords felt stretched taut over a pair of rusty drumsticks. “Ready when you are.”

“Three minutes each round, sunflower,” Juliya rumbled in response, those glacial blue eyes locked onto Zoey’s with a focus that could have cracked granite. She crossed her arms over the impressive expanse of sculpted chest sheathed beneath the teal fabric. It was like watching a leopard about to spring – all coiled power and predatory grace. “Rest between.”  The Ukrainian rolled out her shoulders, each movement deliberate, controlled, almost mechanical in its efficiency. Then she added with a smirk that sliced through Zoey’s carefully constructed facade of casual confidence like a finely honed knife, "And no biting."

“No biting,” Zoey echoed back, managing a choked laugh that came out somewhere between a crow and a strangled goose honk. Her cheeks burned – were they always this vivid scarlet?  She hadn’t been this self-conscious since high school gym class in her ill-fitting hand-me-down leotard. But Juliya's teasing wasn't malicious, just part of the pre-battle ritual – a way of stripping away pretense and getting down to the raw muscle beneath.

They circled each other cautiously at first, then with growing confidence as if testing the limits of the space they’d carved out on their matted battlefield. The basement smelled faintly of damp earth, and dust motes danced in the pale rectangle of light filtering through the grimy window above, making them look like miniature snowstorms caught in the grip of a lazy afternoon sunbeam. 

The old timer clock – salvaged from an antique shop in her neighborhood that sold more clutter than treasures – sat on a rickety folding table propped against the exposed brick wall. It was a clunky thing with a brass pendulum swinging lazily back and forth, its painted white face chipped and faded like some forgotten hero of Victorian timekeeping.  The hands ticked forward with a slow, deliberate rasping, each movement announcing their approach to battle in an almost ritualistic way.

Juliya snapped her fingers impatiently, the sound sharp enough to cut through Zoey’s nervous buzzing. “Go.”   

Zoey crouched low, drawing strength from the solid foundation of legs she hadn't known were capable of such power until six weeks ago. It was like a switch had flipped somewhere deep inside her – muscles forgotten in years spent hunched over keyboards and drowning in deadlines suddenly remembered their purpose. The familiar panic that always threatened to swamp her under pressure gave way to something cleaner, sharper: focus. 

She wasn’t sure what Juliya would bring to the table – takedowns? Throws? Some terrifying Ukrainian grappling sorcery learned on snow-covered steppes – but she was ready. Zoey had spent the last few weeks learning from the textbook illustrations and grainy YouTube clips she'd found online, practicing moves with a fervor bordering on obsession until her arms trembled and her forearms protested like they’d been swapped out for old rubber hoses. 

It wasn't about winning or losing – at least not in any way that mattered beyond this ring of foam mats smelling faintly of dust and desperation in the bowels of her house. This was about proving something to herself, and maybe to Juliya, if she could manage a decent grin beneath all those impressive muscles.

This was about being more than a woman with a deadline and a bad habit of reaching for chocolate at 3 p.m. It was about showing that under the layers of self-deprecating humor and caffeine addiction lived a creature capable of something fierce, something primal. Something that could stare down a Ukrainian warrior princess in her teal bikini and say, "Bring it on."

The timer's brass pendulum swung its last lazy arc before clattering into silence.  It was almost as if they were both holding their breath for that moment – the transition from measured anticipation to raw, primal energy that crackled between them like static electricity.

Juliya moved first, a blur of teal against the dusty backdrop of Zoey's basement. A double-leg takedown straight out of a textbook illustration -  swift, precise, and brutal enough to leave Zoey momentarily sprawled on the mat with her legs tangled around an oak tree trunk disguised as a thigh.

Zoey gasped, momentarily stunned by the force of the impact and Juliya's almost balletic grace in executing it. Her back scraped against the rough concrete floor, tasting gritty dust that had remained airborne for decades. The air whooshed out of her lungs in a ragged hiss punctuated by the distinct crunch of something - either an old bone spur or one of those rogue drywall shards – under a stubborn knee digging into her ribs. 

She rolled onto her side, scrambling to find a purchase on the mat before she became Juliya's human chew toy. The Ukrainian loomed above, one hand casually splayed across Zoey’s chest like a possessive monarch marking his territory, the other curled around the back of her neck – an intimidating grip that smelled faintly of lavender and iron weights.

"Sunflower," Juliya rumbled low in her throat, voice laced with amusement that had nothing to do with pity. "You are like...well-seasoned cabbage."

Zoey gritted her teeth against the sudden urge to laugh, which would probably lead to a painful expulsion of air and a humiliating repositioning under Juliya’s athletic posterior. Instead, she managed a strangled grunt and clawed at the mat beneath them – just enough to shift position, bringing her arm up in an awkward but desperate attempt to hook around Juliya's waist. 

The Ukrainian didn't seem fazed by Zoey's last-ditch effort at counterattacking. She shifted weight gracefully, like a predator easing down onto its prey without crushing the bones it intended to savor later. Her arm twisted behind Zoey's back, pinning one of her elbows against the floor with an efficiency that would have made a medieval blacksmith envious.  The other hand pressed into the small of Zoey’s back, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her she was trapped in a vice grip between muscle and bone honed by years of Ukrainian winters spent wrestling snowdrifts and maybe the occasional bear cub.

“Not bad,” Juliya said, voice softened just enough to imply that this wasn't an entirely pointless struggle for a sunflower caught in a blizzard of teal-clad fury. “But you are like…very determined cabbage.”  She lowered her body until their chests were pressed together, the warmth radiating from her skin oddly comforting beneath the tight tension across Zoey’s muscles.

Zoey could smell something vaguely sweet and citrusy on Juliya—maybe that lavender-scented shampoo she always used. It mingled with the damp scent of exertion and something uniquely hers: a metallic tang, like blood, faintly tinged with iron and ozone, like standing too close to a power line after a summer thunderstorm.

"You trying to suffocate me?" Zoey managed to grunt out through clenched teeth.  She wriggled her trapped arm again – maybe she could leverage it against Juliya’s ribs somehow? A wild idea bloomed in the tight space between panic and exertion: Could she go for a classic ‘shoulder roll,’ even with this much of her anatomy acting like an uncooperative garden gnome?

At that moment, the image of herself performing any graceful maneuver, especially involving shoulders and rolling, felt as ludicrous as trying to swan dive into a bathtub full of cement. Yet, it was the best option Zoey could conjure from the jumble of exhaustion and adrenaline clawing at her lungs.

She pressed her shoulder hard against Juliya's ribs – a move more akin to ramming a brick wall than anything remotely ballet-like – then twisted with the desperation of a sunflower trying to turn its face toward the sun before being choked by an overly enthusiastic vine.  It worked, surprisingly enough. The sudden shift in pressure forced Juliya’s arm, holding Zoey’s elbow off balance.

Juliya hissed through clenched teeth, her grip tightening on the back of Zoey's neck for a split-second before she righted herself with a fluid grace that made Zoey feel like someone had just dropped her onto an unsteady stack of packing crates. The air whooshed past Zoey’s ears as Juliya twisted away, pulling her up with it and leaving them both sprawled momentarily in what could generously be described as a tangled pretzel formation on the matting.

Zoey landed hard – shoulder bone meeting concrete floor – and gasped. But she was upright enough to use that momentary scramble as an opportunity. She shoved off Juliya’s chest, which felt disturbingly like pushing against a well-padded but undeniably solid refrigerator door, and used the momentum to launch herself forward in a clumsy half-hearted attempt at what might have been a cross-body takedown had it not devolved into something more resembling a drunken otter trying to mount its reflection.

It was close enough, though – her legs snagged on Juliya’s lower thighs with the unexpected success of an overgrown weed taking root in a crack in the concrete. The Ukrainian staggered back, momentarily off balance by the sudden change in momentum and Zoey's clinging desperation.

Zoey scrambled for purchase, dragging herself higher onto Juliya’s hip like a startled barnacle latching onto a passing whale. She was a tangle of limbs, feeling more like she was riding a very muscular bucking bronco than executing any refined grappling technique.

"You are…very tenacious cabbage," Juliya finally said, the amusement back in her voice but edged with something else: respect. Maybe even grudging admiration. Her hand shot out, not to shove Zoey off, but to grip the damp cotton of her orange bikini top and yank her forward – using Zoey’s momentum against her like a rogue wave catching a surfer unprepared.

Zoey went airborne for an eternity before landing on her back again, legs splayed like some startled insect pinned beneath a glass. The timer clanged its final rasping gong just as Juliya settled herself beside her chest, pinning Zoey’s arms firmly against the matting with both of hers.

Zoey lay there for a heartbeat, catching her breath – not that she could get much past the wall of teal-clad muscle and lavender shampoo scent pressing down on her like a well-loved cashmere sweater you hadn't quite gotten around to washing in three months.

“Well?”  Juliya asked, tilting her head just enough to peer at Zoey’s face with those disconcertingly intelligent blue eyes.

"That was…interesting," Zoey managed, her voice sounding thin and rusty even to her ears.
“Interesting?” Juliya echoed, amusement dancing in the faint wrinkles that crinkled around those startlingly blue eyes. “Sunflower, you are like…a particularly determined dandelion trying to sprout from a crack in the concrete.”

Zoey coughed out a laugh, a dry rasp of something more akin to gravel rolling down a tin roof than a melodious sound. She sat up slowly, feeling the matting beneath her press damply against her back and the sting of lactic acid building in every muscle that had woken up halfway through the first round.

“Concrete is a good metaphor,” she wheezed, pushing herself upright on the floor with shaky hands and grabbing the water bottle forgotten by the timer clock. It was one of those plastic things she kept around for emergencies—the kind that seemed to absorb every drop of sweat and grime it came near.

“Here,” she croaked, holding out the vaguely floral-scented vessel like a communion cup to Juliya. The Ukrainian took it with a graceful, fluid motion - her grip on Zoey’s world was as easy and sure as if she were plucking an apple from its branch –  and tilted back her head in one swift movement, emptying half the bottle down her throat before handing it back to Zoey like it was a piece of ceremonial silverware.

“This is…refreshing,” Juliya declared, wiping the condensation off her jaw with the back of her forearm, leaving a faint streak of white against her tan skin like a startled deer leaping through the fog. The dampness seemed to cool her down in some visible way – even the taut lines of her shoulders slackened just enough for Zoey to see how hard they were working beneath that smooth surface.

Zoey took back the bottle, gulped gratefully at its lukewarm contents, and then swiped a hand across her forehead, smearing sweat and what felt like dust bunnies into an ever-expanding smear down her temple.  “Well?” she croaked again, suddenly self-conscious of how much less coordinated she looked than Juliya’s sleek, almost predatory grace. It was as if the Ukrainian had been sculpted from a piece of polished obsidian that could have cut glass and then melted into liquid moonlight – all sharp angles and effortless movement.

Juliya raised an eyebrow at Zoey's grimace and how she looked like someone trying to untangle themselves from a very determined hug with a garden hose after being run over by a lawnmower. It wasn’t precisely an expression of warrior spirit. Still, then again, neither was Juliya likely used to encountering sunflowers, which were more likely to be found in coffee shops debating the merits of single-origin beans than grappling on dusty basement floors.

“You are like…very enthusiastic cabbage,” she observed after a pause that stretched out long enough for Zoey to wonder if "enthusiastic" was an insult in Ukrainian or if maybe Juliya was waiting for her to sputter and die from the effort of trying to catch her breath.

“And you’re very…” Zoey started, searching for a word that didn't involve leafy greens,  "efficient," she finally decided on something vague enough to apply to a well-oiled machine and a pair of hands capable of twisting someone's arm like it was made of pretzel dough.

Juliya’s lips twitched with something that might have been amusement - maybe even approval -  before she nodded once, the movement sharp enough to make Zoey think her head might detach entirely from those elegant shoulders. Then she dropped down onto the matting with a deliberate thump like someone settling into their favorite armchair after a long day of hunting wild boars – which seemed somehow appropriate in that basement lit by a single bulb dangling precariously above them.

"Ready for round two?" Juliya asked, her tone suddenly brisk and focused as if switching from leisurely stalking prey to closing in on it with the last ounce of daylight before dusk swallowed them both whole.

Zoey stared at those dark eyes watching her intently – like someone looking through a thick telescope at some distant celestial body, weighing its size and composition and wondering how long it would take to get there before it blew up. "Ready as I'll ever be," she rasped out again, feeling suddenly less like a determined cabbage and more like the kind of flower you might find growing bravely from a crack in a sidewalk – scraggly and persistent, but not quite sure if it was going to make it past this particular storm front or not.

But at least it was trying.

The pendulum of the old timer swung with a mournful creak as Zoey reset it, each tick echoing in the stillness that had descended like a shroud over the basement. The air hung thick with damp earth smells and the metallic tang of exertion - not unpleasant exactly, but more akin to what one might inhale after poking around in a well-used blacksmith’s forge than an aroma for making floral arrangements. 

It wasn't just her muscles that felt as if they were woven from old iron filings and yesterday's dreams – something about how Juliya regarded her now shifted the atmosphere. The amusement hadn't entirely vanished, but it had been tempered by a sharpening focus, like the predator who’d sniffed out the scent of the game in the morning mist before settling down to wait for its prey to make the wrong move.

Zoey gave the timer one last thump with her palm – less for reassurance than maybe trying to scare any lingering ghosts of dusty attics into hiding – then hopped back onto the matting, landing with a slightly more controlled thud this time.  She lay there momentarily, catching her breath and feeling as if she was listening to her internal organs doing the clinking-and-clattering rhythm you might expect from someone who’d just run through an unpaved orchard after a particularly skittish goat.

Juliya took up position facing Zoey with the same sort of relaxed power that made Zoey think about things like mountain lions and glaciers – both capable of terrifying violence and possessed of an almost hypnotic stillness when they chose to be. The Ukrainian’s hands were loosely clasped in front of her, fingers resting lightly on her thighs like she might pick up a pair of well-worn gloves at any moment and settle into the rhythm of shadowboxing.  Her chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate grace that seemed to consume something vast and elemental – maybe the whole expanse of the Ukrainian steppe stretching back from those forested edges where wolves still stalked under moonlit skies.

Zoey felt like someone trying to balance a teacup on a stack of overripe oranges while juggling radishes amid a slight earthquake. It wasn't so much fear as an awareness that there were certain things you could only compare to if your vocabulary was starting to resemble what one might find scrawled across ancient cave walls – like trying to describe something with a single word that encompassed both the bite of a wolf and the way snow settles in a pine forest just after the first frost.

The timer clanged its final rasping gong, signaling Juliya’s whole being to uncoil. It wasn’t so much a sudden burst of motion, like a ripple that started at her shoulders and flowed down through those long limbs with the controlled force of something shifting tides on some distant coast –  a wave gathering power before it crashed onto the shore.

Zoey tried to scramble upright first, but Juliya anticipated her move with an economy of effort that felt almost inhuman. Her hand shot out like a whip, catching Zoey’s wrist in one fluid movement and yanking her off balance again before she could adequately plant her feet. For the second time in as many rounds, Zoey ended up sprawled on the matting face down, feeling the scrape of dust against her cheekbones and smelling faintly of old gym socks and that almost metallic tang Juliya seemed to emanate like some walking ozone generator.

She was pinned there with a light but insistent weight – Juliya’s body somehow both pressing into Zoey like a well-loved but overstuffed beanbag chair and hovering just above her in a way that made it hard to tell if they were sharing the same space or not. One arm of Juliya's held Zoey’s wrists pinned down with an almost casual strength; the other rested across Zoey's back –  not so much gripping as anchoring her there like a small sailboat caught between two large buoys in a gentle current.

“You are like…a very determined weed,” Juliya said softly from above her, and this time, it sounded less like an observation about tenacity and more like something that might be carved on the stone tablets of ancient proverbs. Zoey wanted to ask what kind of weed, but she wasn't quite sure if breath was allowed in that state –  something you might only be granted back once you’d successfully pulled yourself upright again or been crushed entirely beneath a particular type of botanical pressure.

“Round two…going well?” she managed eventually, voice sounding more like the rustle of dry leaves than any coherent sentence.

A low chuckle rumbled deep in Juliya’s chest, vibrating pleasantly against Zoey’s back like a tuning fork struck against bone rather than flesh.

"For you," she conceded, the amusement still tinged with that underlying respect Zoey was starting to find almost as unnerving as any physical exertion, "a very well-determined weed."

Her tone shifted again, sharpening perceptibly –  like sunlight catching on honed flint before it ignited a spark. The shift wasn't in her grip - which held steady as ever - but subtly, she seemed to press against Zoey’s chest with that resting forearm, a gentle weight turning into something closer to a measured brace. A pressure point, maybe?  Zoey found herself instinctively trying to draw breath deeper than necessary, almost like someone holding her lungs full of air too long before letting it out in a single dramatic sigh.

“Sunflower,” Juliya said then, voice low and rumbling like distant thunder over open fields – something Zoey had suddenly started associating with the Ukrainian despite their wildly divergent habitats - “you are good at…unexpected things."

The word "good" felt almost startlingly specific and nearly clinical in that context. It wasn't an everyday compliment one received on a damp basement floor wrestling mat after having been pinned down by a woman whose biceps looked like they could bench-press small cars. Yet it was somehow more disconcerting than outright mockery might have been -  like being told you had done a passable job of mimicking the mating call of a particular kind of frog while everyone else in the room was trying to decide whether to laugh or burst into tears over a particularly awkward rendition of “God Save the Queen” on a kazoo.

“Unexpectedly tenacious?” Zoey offered, her voice sounding like someone trying to speak underwater through a mouthful of gravel. She shifted slightly beneath Juliya –  a futile attempt at finding a purchase more likely to have been born from some primal urge for upward mobility than any strategic thought process. The muscles in her shoulder blades screamed in protest with the effort -  it wasn’t just the physical exertion; there was something about being so wholly contained beneath Juliya like a specimen under glass –  all angles and pressure points and that underlying sense of someone assessing you for their amusement but not necessarily with malicious intent.

Juliya's answer came as a slow, deliberate shift in her weight, enough to make Zoey feel the space between them subtly change - almost as if one of those enormous hands resting lightly on her back had been replaced by something more akin to a giant hand warmer, radiating warmth outward like a miniature sun. “Unexpectedly…strong,” she conceded after a pause long enough for Zoey to start wondering if Juliya was trying to decide whether to use the word "wiry" or "springy," which both somehow seemed equally absurd when applied to her current state of being pinned like a particularly enthusiastic butterfly caught beneath a large, very well-dressed beetle.

"But...not…sufficiently so." The last words were uttered with a soft sigh that sounded more like the rustling of leaves against dry stone than any human exhale—like the basement was suddenly receiving some delicate breeze from the far side of whatever primal Ukrainian forest had birthed Juliya.

Then, with a slowness that was almost disconcerting in its deliberation – as if she’d decided on her next move after weighing options involving constellations and migrating bird patterns -  Juliya shifted again.

Zoey felt it first as a deepening pressure on the curve of her spine, then a subtle tug upward at one hip as if someone was gently trying to unwind a particularly knotted piece of string attached to a heavy-duty doorstop. Her arms were still pinned by those unyielding wrists like some overstuffed armchair being held aloft for an inspection - and she couldn’t tell yet if Juliya intended to use them as leverage or leave her hanging there upside down like a particularly fleshy Christmas ornament until the timer decided it was time to move on.

“You are…very good at surprises,” Juliya murmured, and this time, Zoey could almost swear that faint scent of ozone mixed with something else –  maybe pine needles and damp earth from some forest she’d only ever seen in dreams.

Zoey was unsure what to reply to or whether any reply would be acceptable under the current circumstances.

All she could think of was that if this round turned out to be anything like a particularly insistent dandelion trying to sprout from concrete again –  then maybe “surprises” would become the new cornerstone of her vocabulary.

The basement held its breath for a moment, that suspended space where time seemed to be composed of things like dust motes dancing in a single shaft of light and the almost imperceptible rasping of Zoey’s heartbeat trying to claw its way out from behind a wall of ribcage. It felt like something you might experience inside a seashell held up to one ear after someone tossed a pebble into a well –  that muffled, echoing, waiting-to-be-answered kind of quiet.

Juliya was still shifting weight and position in that slow, deliberate way that made Zoey feel less pinned and more like she was part of some exquisitely balanced, precariously stacked sculpture -  like one of those elaborate birdcages where the whole structure seemed to be held aloft by a single improbable bend in a length of wire.

The scent of ozone had deepened now, mingling with something else Zoey couldn’t quite place—maybe wet clay and old leather, like someone had taken a particular memory of her childhood attic and distilled it down to a primal aroma. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was more unsettling than anything, like being surrounded by the ghost of a scent that should have felt familiar but didn't belong in this particular context of damp basement carpeting and forgotten boxes of dusty Christmas decorations.

Then Juliya shifted again – not so much moved as uncoiled like some very well-tended vine that had suddenly decided to take a new direction in search of sunlight.  Her hand shot down from her resting position on Zoey’s back, gripping lightly just above her shoulder blade and using it like a fulcrum. The movement wasn't jarring – more like being gently levered upward with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much force was required to make an unexpected hinge work without causing any damage or discomfort.

Zoey found herself in a position she hadn’t anticipated -  not relatively upright, more as if her back had been tipped forward and upwards by an invisible hand holding the crown of her skull.  Wrists still pinned her, but it felt less like being bound and more like one leg of a pair of oversized spectacles resting lightly against the bridge of her nose –  a peculiar sensation that left her momentarily unable to decide if she was about to be pushed into something or somehow flipped over onto the other side of her axis.

“You are…growing accustomed,” Juliya observed, voice still rumbling low and oddly resonant in the small space, “to unexpected things.”

It wasn’t a complaint. The tone was closer to detached assessment than anything else –  like someone watching an experiment involving earthworms and sunlight after carefully setting up their petri dish for optimal viewing. Zoey couldn't quite decide if she found it more unnerving or oddly reassuring that this kind of observation seemed like standard operating procedure in the Juliya-defined realm of wrestling etiquette.

However, before Zoey could muster a reply,  Juliya was shifting again – not just her weight but her entire stance. One hand moved from Zoey’s back to grip lightly around one ankle, the other still holding onto her wrists and using them as leverage for something that looked like it might be a particular kind of controlled drop-and-sweep maneuver.  Zoey braced herself for it – not so much against any pain, more a sudden shift in the way gravity was behaving within this particular four-foot diameter bubble they’d created –  like someone had shifted the floor beneath them without entirely changing the direction of the sunbeams slanting through the grimy basement window.

The drop came, but instead of being thrown to the side or back like a carelessly discarded rag doll, Zoey found herself lowered gently and deliberately onto the matting. She ended up sprawled face-down again – this time with one leg bent at a vaguely anatomical angle but felt more like it belonged on a contortionist's poster than her own body. Juliya hovered above her for a moment, arms still locked in place as if waiting to make sure she hadn't somehow sprouted into the wrong shape of a human.

“You are…flexible,” Juliya finally said, and there was something almost grudgingly impressed about the tone this time. “In unexpected ways.”

The timer clanged its final gong just as Juliya started to untangle her limbs from Zoey’s with that same slow deliberation she seemed to bring to everything else –  like someone carefully separating pieces of a very intricate puzzle box rather than disentangling limbs after a particularly energetic tussle. The sudden cessation of movement left the basement feeling oddly silent and still, like one of those moments between breaths where you can hear your blood pulsing through your ears.

“Water?” Zoey asked, voice sounding ragged and strangely thin even to her ears. She pushed herself onto a forearm, then had to lie back down again because her legs were not yet on speaking terms with the concept of "supporting body weight in a coordinated fashion."

"Yes," Juliya replied, moving away from Zoey without letting go. A glance over her shoulder showed Zoey that the Ukrainian was already heading up the basement stairs towards whatever light. Air-conditioned normalcy awaited them above -  a fluid movement made Zoey wonder if she'd imagined those bursts of energy as more dramatic than necessary, like watching someone move through the water rather than a place with gravity. "And…perhaps," Juliya added without turning back, voice echoing slightly down the stairs – "next round…topless?"

Zoey shifted again on the matting, feeling the familiar pull of chafing against her damp bikini top. The fabric clung to her skin, slick with sweat and effort. At this point, the thought was less about modesty and more about simple physics—it felt like someone had forgotten to factor in the laws of friction when designing workout attire for basement grappling sessions.

"Agreed," Zoey croaked out after a beat's hesitation, wondering if she could pull off a decent version of "I have no shame" while simultaneously trying to avoid looking like someone who'd just been dragged through a hedge backward.  Then again, with Juliya around, maybe "no shame" was simply a new baseline for physical exertion.

It wasn’t the worst idea in the world for her current state of affairs – even if it did feel like admitting she might have mistaken this wrestling thing for some very intense game of hide-and-seek after all.  But at least she wouldn't be fighting both Juliya and that stubbornly clinging scrap of spandex, which was something, right?

The thought sent a faint tremor through the damp basement floor – probably just her nerves, or maybe the Ukrainian had already started shifting tectonic plates again from above. Either way, Zoey decided to chalk it up to "part of the process" and see if she could find her voice before Juliya returned with what was undoubtedly going to be a massive jug of water -  and possibly some primal forest-flavored sports drink concoction that smelled vaguely of ancient myths and pine needles.

The basement air hung thick and faintly sweet as Zoey reset the timer, its familiar metallic clang resonating like a defiant bell against the damp stillness that had settled back in after Juliya’s ascent. She’d chosen 3 minutes –  a concession to their combined panting and general need for hydration after Round 2. But also, because it felt like something close enough to “forever” at this point, but not so daunting as to make Zoey want to fling herself back onto the matting face-down again and hope Juliya mistook her for an exceptionally well-toned carpet sample.

The Ukrainian reappeared down the steps with a water jug that looked less like a standard plastic dispenser and more like something unearthed from a Viking longboat—a hefty ceramic thing embossed with stylized wolves howling at what Zoey guessed was meant to be the moon. However, it could have been just some dramatic cloud formation in an ancient sky. It seemed apt, given that Juliya always made even mundane objects look like relics from an epic saga.

She hefted it over her shoulder, then tossed down a plastic water bottle—one with vaguely corporate branding that usually adorned things meant for office breakrooms or airport lounges—and grabbed a second jug just for her use. “Water,” she confirmed in a tone that brooked no argument, like someone announcing they were about to demonstrate something involving live squirrels and a specific type of musical saw.

Zoey took the bottle gratefully, feeling the cold plastic against the back of her neck as if it had been dipped in the first flush of an arctic spring after years locked under ice –  it was so refreshing that she nearly choked on it the second time she tried to draw breath. “Thanks,” she managed between gulps, wondering briefly if any pre-match ritual involved a ceremonial head-butt against something heavy and damp like a moss-covered stone wall or maybe just accepting a bottle of water from someone who seemed perpetually sculpted out of granite and the scent of ozone-laced forests.

They both drank in companionable silence for a moment. Zoey felt that strange combination of acute awareness of her ragged breaths and ultimately lost in some primal echo chamber created by Juliya’s presence, like finding herself in a room with only two other things: the scent of damp pine needles and an intense bass note that vibrated more than it was audible.

When she looked back up, Juliya was already moving towards the matting –  still dripping a little from whatever ritualistic splashing-in-the-river had taken place in the shower upstairs, leaving faint droplets like tiny sunbursts on her bare shoulders and across the line of taut muscle that bisected her chest. The Ukrainian moved with such quiet confidence that Zoey half expected to see a pair of stylized wolves emerge from behind the damp patches clinging to her hair, maybe start circling slowly before settling into flanking positions around her flanks as she descended onto the matting.

Zoey peeled off her sports bra and shirt, feeling an unexpected flush creep up her neck despite the heat radiating off the basement floor. There were no hidden insecurities about her body – she’d spent years sculpting it from the raw material of a desk jockey into something more akin to a well-worn but reliable antique. Still, there was something about being exposed in this particular setting, facing down someone who seemed to have been built out of granite and ancient forests, that felt like stepping back into a primal ritual she’d forgotten existed.

It wasn't just the way her muscles had tightened under years of weightlifting and plyometrics – the smooth corded lines tracing along her arms and shoulders, the firm curve of her thighs beneath the pale skin that was probably more toned than most people’s biceps - it was the raw awareness of them in this space. A sudden, visceral understanding that every inch of muscle had been carved out with blood and grit and iron-infused sweat. The kind of primal pride she used to feel when watching a game film on the big screen after an incredibly hard-won victory. Only now, it was directed inward.

Juliya settled onto her mat in the opposite corner from Zoey’s –  the same slow grace that marked everything she did, even with just shifting weight. She seemed oblivious to any tension radiating off Zoey like heat from a fresh forge. Her gaze lingered for a beat longer on Zoey's bare chest than strictly necessary, then moved back up again as if taking in the whole landscape –  like she was appreciating some exceptionally well-maintained specimen in her natural habitat.

“Ready?” Juliya asked finally, voice still rumbling low enough to resonate against Zoey’s sternum even from across the matting. Her eyes weren't predatory, like a falcon contemplating a field mouse that had just decided to sun itself on the wrong side of the hedge –  a creature aware of the risk but not quite ready to leap.

“Ready,” Zoey echoed back, her voice sounding rough even in the echoing basement stillness.

The air between them crackled with something more than anticipation at this point – a low hum of primal energy that had little to do with the impending grapple and everything to do with the naked display of their bodies. There was an unspoken challenge woven into their shared gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the game they were playing beyond the wrestling hold, the sweat-slicked matting, and even the timer ticking down its final seconds before release. 

It wasn't just about making each other submit – it was about who would bend first under the weight of this unspoken desire simmering beneath their muscles and bone for two rounds now—the one who yielded control in the most exquisitely painful, satisfying way.

The timer dinged with its final clang, and they both moved, simultaneously launching into a tangle of limbs that was less about grappling technique and more about a desperate attempt to claim dominance – to press chests, hips, and shoulders against each other with enough force to leave their mark on the other’s skin like a branding iron. This wasn't just about winning; this was about who could carve out a territory of possession in this small space and make the other woman acknowledge her raw power in the most visceral way possible.

Zoey felt Juliya’s breath warm against her cheekbone as they rolled. She smelled the musk and pine-scented soap that clung to the curve of her shoulder. It was more potent than any perfume Zoey had ever worn—the scent of a woman who moved through the world, leaving trails of wildness in her wake. This wasn’t just wrestling anymore; it was more profound, darker, primal, and hungry.

The basement felt too small to contain it all.
The matting felt like a patchwork quilt beneath them, shifting and bunching as they fought for purchase on the slick surface of their skin. Zoey found herself pinned; Juliya’s weight settled across her chest like a granite sundial – immovable yet somehow radiating heat that seeped into her bones instead of radiating outward. It wasn’t an oppressive weight, like the sun settling onto bare arms after too much time in shadow, pleasantly warming but with an underlying intensity that made you acutely aware that your skin was already vibrating at a slightly higher frequency than usual.

Zoey’s chin rested against the matting, damp and faintly smelling of ozone and old wood polish –  the scent of basement ghosts, she thought briefly, wondering if this particular space had ever hosted anything besides forgotten family photoshoots and misplaced Christmas decorations before becoming her wrestling arena. A muffled thump came from somewhere above their heads as Juliya shifted again, probably the Ukrainian’s foot finding its way onto a loose board or something –  the sound reverberating through the floor like a small drumbeat marking time in this tiny world of tangled limbs and damp air that smelled faintly of pine needles and ancient sweat.

Above her, Juliya was a living paradox - all sharp angles and coiled tension against the curve of Zoey’s chest as if sculpted by someone who loved both the elegance of a hawk's wingspan and the way a mountain ridge held back entire clouds with its sheer will. Her bare arms were corded across Zoey’s shoulders, thumbs digging into the flesh just above her collarbone –  the pressure like tiny obsidian claws holding her in place, not painful but insistent enough to make it feel as though her blood was thickening and pulsing in response.

"Good," Juliya murmured against the heat radiating from Zoey’s cheek. Her voice still had that rumbling quality even when close enough for the words to brush against Zoey’s ear like a low, contented purr. It was a sound meant for something more intimate than grappling –  something less about competition and more akin to finding out which of two wolves was bigger and whether one could hold the other in a satisfying headlock without biting too much. "You are…struggling."

"Struggling?" Zoey echoed back, voice muffled against the matting and probably sounding like she was trying to speak through a mouthful of damp flannel. But then again, given the state of things down here, it might have been more accurate than usual.

“Not…enough,” Juliya corrected with a soft sigh that smelled faintly of pine needles and something else – maybe woodsmoke and old leather, like someone had taken the scent of a forest after a lightning storm and distilled it into a single exhalation. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was more disconcerting in the same way as being able to smell someone’s thoughts and perfume.

“Should I…bite?” Zoey ventured out from beneath her mouthful of basement carpeting, wondering if this was now part of the grappling rules –  like suddenly having to incorporate teeth into your hold because Juliya seemed to be running a whole other set of regulations on top of whatever wrestling manual she'd been using for the last two rounds.

She felt a muscle tighten in Juliya’s arm above her shoulder, something akin to a hummingbird coiling its wings before taking off –  like an electric current had just passed through her grip and tightened it further until Zoey could practically hear the faint rasp of bone against bone beneath the skin. "Bite," Juliya agreed finally, voice dropping another notch lower than usual - almost like she was speaking into one of those ancient clay trumpets they sometimes found in archaeological dig sites—a sound designed to carry across vast distances and still feel intimate enough to whisper secrets through.

Zoey fisted in the damp mat beneath her chin, trying to decide if this meant "bite with casual acceptance" or "sink your canines into my shoulder like a starving wolf pup who has decided you are his favorite chew toy." The Ukrainian had a knack for leaving that kind of interpretive space open—not unkindly, just expansively.

“Bite…with intent,” Juliya added after another beat of silence punctuated only by the faint tick of the basement clock somewhere above them and Zoey’s ragged breaths echoing back at her like whispers from a drowned cave. "Do not merely…taste."

The air hung thick enough for Zoey almost to feel it pressing against her skin as she shifted, trying to get leverage on something beyond the damp matting beneath her –  like someone moving in a too-tight sweater and suddenly realizing there weren't any seams left to grip. She tilted her head back, aiming for the space between Juliya’s shoulder blade and the nape of her neck, where muscle gave way to softer flesh.

It was a gamble based on nothing more than how those shoulders had seemed to ripple with tension as she’d spoken –  like someone watching a particularly intricate tapestry shift in the wind. The risk wasn't so much pain, but Juliya would somehow read into it and decide Zoey was surrendering too quickly. Or maybe that this bite wouldn’t be enough.

As she pressed forward, she caught the faintest smells—something metallic like old pennies and wet stone, along with that pine-and-woodsmoke blend that seemed to cling to everything about Juliya. The scent felt like standing in a forest after it burned and rained on.

Then her teeth found purchase.

It was less the snap of canines against flesh than a surprised sigh escaping Juliya’s lips as she went rigid beneath Zoey’s weight, her breath snagging for an instant before coming out again raggedly –  a sound like someone trying to draw air through a dry riverbed after a drought.

Zoey sank deeper into the hold, anchoring her arm against Juliya's shoulder blade, drawing in another tentative exhale of that woodsmoke-and-pine scent mingled with something else now - something sweeter and more primal like sunbaked earth and the faint metallic tang of blood that clung to both of them beneath the pine.

It wasn’t a bite meant to draw blood. Still, it was definitely enough to mark territory –  to claim this small space, this tangle of limbs, as her own for however long those teeth could hold fast against the heat radiating from Juliya’s bare skin and the way that muscle still seemed to coil beneath Zoey’s grip like a living thing.

This wasn't just about winning anymore. Not really.

The basement clock ticked steadily above their heads, but it felt more like the heartbeat of something ancient and wilder than time.

Zoey held on tight and let herself sink deeper into the bite –  into the heat that radiated off Juliya’s back like a slow burn spreading through her blood. This was war by scent, muscle, and the low-breath rumble against the skin. And for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to see how long it took before one of them gave way.

The rasp of breath against skin became a tide, rising and falling between them like the pulse of some unseen leviathan whose heart beat in time with the basement clock’s ticking above. Zoey’s hold remained fixed – teeth sunk into that fleshy valley just above Juliya’s shoulder blade, where muscle softened to give way to something more delicate, almost bird-bone thin beneath her grip. But it wasn't a vise anymore; not quite a struggle for dominance, but rather an elaborate dance of tension and yielding they'd both begun improvising on the fly.

The shift came in Juliya's scent – less pine and woodsmoke now, more like damp earth after a lightning strike –  a metallic tang that tasted faintly of blood and ozone when she drew air through her teeth against Zoey’s jaw. It wasn't enough to stain the matting, but it was potent enough for Zoey to taste it in the small spaces where their breaths brushed across each other in this slow, writhing surrender.

Juliya shifted again, not a roll or an attempt to pry free, more like she’d been dipped into honey and let settle –  a ripple of muscle that began low in her spine and spread outward like heat blooming on the surface of still water. Her thighs tightened against Zoey's hips with enough force for Zoey to feel the slick press of bare flesh beneath damp cotton, a subtle but unmistakable shift in their equilibrium. Then came the wordless question:

Juliya tilted her head back further, pressing harder against Zoey’s chest until it felt like a live coal pressed against ribs, and let out a low sound. This rumbling sigh had nothing to do with air hunger and everything to do with something deeper resonating beneath skin stretched taut across the bone. It was an almost-purr, almost-humming bird call meant for wolves who understood the language of blood-and-bone vibrations more than spoken words.

*Now?* it asked, as much in scent and muscle tension as any actual sound Juliya made. *This close? Here?*

Zoey tasted that ozone tang again with every shallow breath she drew –  something wild blooming beneath her teeth like a late summer wildflower pushing through pavement cracks after an unseasonable storm. It wasn’t fear exactly, more like the awareness of some primal truth settling on her chest – that if Juliya wanted to shift them further into this tangled space of their making, there was little room left for argument or even much in the way of conscious choice anymore.

She felt a pulse point throb against her fingertips where one hand rested on the curve of Juliya’s hip –  the frantic beat of something that wasn't just blood but pure, unfiltered will coil up like a viper ready to strike if allowed space to coil and strike.

Zoey shifted her weight again, drawing back just enough for her jaw to come free of its anchor point on Juliya's shoulder while letting the rest of her slide further down their shared slope until she was nestled more firmly against that slick curve of hipbone and thigh. In this space, she felt the heat radiating through her arm like a furnace vent—the warmth not just physical but something more profound, like an ember bed glowing beneath her fingertips and spreading outward across muscle and bone to encompass her entire chest.

A breath hitched somewhere inside Zoey's ribs as Juliya shifted again, sliding lower until the curve of that hipbone pressed against Zoey’s own with a soft click that seemed to echo through the basement like some ancient hinge finally settling after decades of waiting. It was a subtle change – barely more than a quarter inch –but felt monumental in this cramped space they'd carved out, making every exposed inch of skin between them vibrate with a low hum as if sharing the same heartbeat now.

*What do you want?* Zoey asked into that heat radiating off Juliya’s hip as an unspoken question whispered through bone and muscle, something that had less to do with her mouth than it did with the way she shifted down further until their chests were almost touching. Juliya's breath feathered against the hollow of her ribs.

She tasted blood on her tongue, a little slicker than before –  the metallic tang mingling with pine and woodsmoke and something deeper still that had no name yet but was already carving out its territory in Zoey’s sinuses like a vine taking root through the stone. It wasn't just dominance anymore, not the way they’d been circling each other for rounds two or three now –  this felt more like finding out who could offer up the most willing surrender without actually breaking, without giving away too much ground before their bodies had decided that was precisely what both of them wanted to do.

It smelled like a war won not by taking territory but by claiming its edges in your teeth and holding them there until the line blurred between conquest and communion –  the kind of win that felt more like being swallowed whole than conquering anything.

The basement clock chimed its final, resonant gong—not a jarring break like it usually was, but more like an echo striking another echo through the packed space between them until everything vibrated at once. The clang seemed to suspend them in that almost-suspended state of being held, teeth and bone pressed close enough to share breath—a shared gasp as if they’d both just surfaced from a deep dive, lungs aching for something more than air.

Zoey wasn’t sure how long the lock had been settling - seconds? Minutes in some warped basement measure where time was less linear and more like the slow creep of algae across the stone. She'd lost track somewhere between Juliya's thigh tightening against hers and becoming a living, breathing coil of heat radiating outwards to encompass her entire core, between that ozone tang intensifying until it smelled less like burnt metal and more like the first kiss after lightning split the air open and let you taste the raw sky.

The world had narrowed down to points of pressure: the slick warmth of Juliya's hipbone against her own, the insistent thrumming of blood against bone where their chests touched, the faint rasp of breath tickling across skin as if a phantom spiderweb was strung between them and spun with every exhale.  Above all, the weight of Juliya's breast pressed into her face – not so much pressing as settling like a warm stone placed deliberately upon an open palm. Zoey had enough muscle memory from years of wrestling to know she should be trying for leverage here – finding purchase somewhere on that arm, that back, and using it to pry apart the coil of Juliya's leg against hers and break the hold.

But the scent was something else entirely - a primal musk blooming beneath the pine-and-stone and ozone; the way Juliya seemed to vibrate with every shift in their combined weight as if she hadn’t just been holding herself upright but had instead become one vast, living tuning fork that resonated at a frequency just below Zoey's skin. It was enough to make her chest ache, not with exertion but something closer to yearning – the kind you felt when standing too close to a roaring fire, and your whole body wanted to be drawn into it, consumed by heat more than burned.

Her teeth were still sunk into the shoulder-blade valley, holding fast more from instinct now than any conscious effort - almost like those first few moments of falling asleep when you grip at blankets even though they’re already wrapped around you. The pressure on her face shifted again – not so much a deliberate push as if Juliya was breathing into Zoey's sternum with each outdrawn breath, exhaling that musk-and-pine scent directly into the hollow between her ribs and forcing it down past the space where lungs had suddenly forgotten how to breathe correctly.

It wasn’t dominance in the way they’d traded takedowns on the mat or battled for a tight hold in round one - this was something else entirely: Juliya not just winning but tasting victory like she'd swallowed a whole wild thing, and it still thrashed within her.

Zoey couldn’t even tell anymore if she wanted to release that lock or be held there until they both turned brittle as ancient bones pressing together beneath the earth until their breath synced up enough that they became one slow, shuddering exhale echoing through the damp basement air. This wasn’t just a fight anymore – not for space on the mat, but for something more like ownership of each other's sinew and bone and whatever else pulsed in the dark where scent had begun to taste like victory.

She inhaled the musk deeper—tasted it along her teeth like wildflower honey and blood-soaked earth—and let herself sag further against the weight pressing down on her face, letting Juliya’s hold become the only thing holding her afloat.

The timer had rung out its final note, but something inside Zoey hummed like this was just the starting gong for a fight, and neither would be left unscathed.

And she wouldn't want to leave it that way – not when Juliya’s chest moved against hers with each breath like some pulsing drumhead, and her scent hung heavier than any trophy in this dim, dusty basement space.

The clang of the timer reverberated through Zoey’s bones like an overstruck gong, less a signal for a respite than a jolt back to something sharper than mere awareness. The echo still vibrated in her teeth where Juliya’s breast pressed against her cheekbone, and she felt it thrumming along the length of every exposed nerve ending –  like someone had taken a red-hot poker and run it down her spine until it lodged somewhere near her tailbone, radiating outwards through skin and muscle.

It took three rounds to bring this back. Three rounds in this damp basement smelling like pine needles and ozone after rain and something else altogether - that musky warmth Juliya radiated like she’d been dipped in the embers of a wood fire long enough for them to sink into her pores –  and it wasn't just the scent. It was how they were both built now, like coiled snakes who’d shed their skins but still bore the faint sheen on their flesh as if they’d barely caught up to the heat radiating off each other in this tiny space.

It wasn't just muscle memory pulling her back into that primal place - it was a flicker of something more profound than instinct rekindled by the scent, the damp press of skin against skin, and the slow thrumming that seemed to be Juliya's whole being vibrating against hers like a tuning fork struck with bone instead of metal.

The college had been all awkward limbs and too much tongue and trying not to spill red wine on silk sheets while discovering the shape of those boundaries in someone else’s heat.  This was older than that – older than even her first memories of being held too tightly by a mother who smelled of soap and lavender or the way old boyfriends had sometimes smelled like gasoline and disappointment after long drives back from nowhere towns.

This was elemental and untamed - like coming across a fox den unearthed by a storm and staring into those amber eyes that saw you not as prey but as another kind of wild thing sharing the same air they breathed.

And Zoey tasted it in Juliya’s musk, smelled it on her skin –  something more profound than simple lust, something primal about the way she held Zoey down like a hawk pinning a field mouse beneath its talons before settling to devour it slowly and deliberately over time, not out of hunger exactly, but because that kind of possession felt right somehow. Like they'd both been made for this tangle of limbs and scent and the slow bleed-through of warmth where their skin touched.

Juliya’s exhale feathered against Zoey’s sternum –  a puff warm enough to stir up a slight heat haze above her clavicle in that enclosed space, carrying down more of that musk-and-pine tang mixed with something sharp like flint struck against steel - the scent of an animal who'd just found its kind again after years wandering alone. She tasted it on her teeth too when she shifted, trying to find purchase on Juliya’s arm and failing because it was already coiled around her waist so tight Zoey felt less held down by muscle and more like wrapped in something that had become living sinew –  like a rope woven from the fibers of their shared breath.

Zoey’s hand found its way up to tug at the damp cotton of Juliya's cotton bottom, dragging it further away from skin slick enough to make her fingers skid against it almost helplessly as if she were trying to grab water that kept dissolving beneath her grasp.  It wasn’t just the warmth radiating off Juliya anymore – it was a dampness deeper than sweat, something primal and pulsing beneath those pale scars etching across her back like etched-in riverbeds, something more insistent than desire alone.

When she finally pulled free enough to find skin again, the scent hit her nose harder - a low hum of musk that smelled sweeter and wilder than before, now laced with the metallic tang that must have been blood drawn from those teeth sinking into muscle just moments ago. Zoey lifted one hand further up Juliya’s back. She traced it down the curve of her shoulder blade, then let it fall away again to rest along the tight band of muscle where it met hip bone –  trying out purchase points with calloused fingertips as if mapping a new kind of topography under her touch.

“Let me…” she rasped against Juliya’s sternum as much through teeth and breath as words, feeling that phantom spiderweb vibrates between them at every exhalation - “Let me taste the rest of you.”

Juliya hummed into her cheekbone, low enough to resonate more than be heard – a sound like wind whispering through dry grasses in a place where even the silence was heavy. She shifted again, not a rolling motion but a subtle settling deeper against Zoey until it felt like they’d become one long spine pressed together instead of two separate beings trying to find purchase on each other. Then she drew back just enough for Zoey to feel the heat radiating from her skin along that length of exposed arm and shoulder –  like being draped in someone else's firelight again, only this time the heat wasn’t just warmth; it was a living thing humming against her bones and trying to burrow its way inward.

“You like that,” Juliya murmured somewhere near Zoey’s ear, breath warm enough to stir up the scent of damp pine needles in that hollow behind her jaw where bone pressed into muscle – “Like my teeth on you.”

She rolled her head just enough for a brief stretch of bare skin above the collarbone to brush against Zoey's cheek. It was pale and dusted with fine down like a willow branch touched by frost, yet radiated heat enough to make Zoey’s teeth ache with wanting even before she tasted it – that same tang of ozone mixed with musk and something sharper now that smelled like overripe cherries left to rot beneath the eaves of a porch in July.

“Nipples,” Juliya breathed out against her jawbone, letting that scent wash over Zoey - not as a request exactly, but more like she’d just unearthed some long-dormant need buried deep down enough to taste faintly metallic, almost primal in its insistence.

Zoey inhaled and tasted it there—that sharpness mixed with musk and ozone, something wild blooming beneath the surface of her skin even before Juliya’s fingers brushed against her ribs like a spider seeking purchase on a web spun from heat instead of silk.

“Let me see what I can make you taste,” she said back, more to herself than anything else –  as if it was already settled in the dim space between them that they were both going to be tasted and chewed up by something more significant than either of their names or even this damp basement with its peeling paint and forgotten trophies stacked against one wall.

It smelled like surrender, that scent - a wild thing sinking deeper into her blood and bone as Zoey’s teeth grazed the edge of Juliya’s jawbone just beneath the curve of her ear in turn.  The kind of surrender where the other half doesn't just feel good; it feels like home found at last after a lifetime wandering in rain forests made entirely of yearning.
"Fourth?" Zoey rasped, more breath than a word, dragging her teeth along Juliya's jawbone where it dipped below that sharp line of cartilage she liked to trace with her tongue –  like tasting a hidden valley carved between peaks too high to reach otherwise.

It wasn’t just the heat radiating off Juliya now, damp and pulsing like a living thing beneath her fingertips; it was something more profound than instinct stirring inside Zoey – that echo chamber in the hollow of her chest where old hunger had been muted for years, not dead but sleeping beneath layers of work ethic and sensible cardigans.

Juliya’s head tilted back just enough to give her an inch more purchase with those teeth, a low hum rumbling against Zoey’s collarbone as if a tuning fork was tuning her dipped in molten gold instead of steel. “Fourth,” Juliya echoed, voice rougher than the rasp of their skin meeting after hours of damp gym sweat clinging to them like a second skin –  not just that scent of pine needles and ozone but something deeper now – musk-and-iron and the metallic tang that always meant blood was close enough to taste.

Zoey tasted it on her tongue when she pulled back, a lick snagging the ridge of Juliya’s jawbone before letting go again with a soft *pop* against those pale scars tracing their way down along the curve of her shoulder like some intricate map drawn in charcoal dust across aged parchment. It wasn't just a question or a confirmation; it was something more profound than that – like two compass needles finding north after years of wandering separate hemispheres.

“Naked,” Juliya said, and the sound was more breathy than words - like she’d been holding that single syllable inside for too long, and it had finally cracked free of its shell to become a living thing writhing in the damp air between them.  “No rules.”

Zoey lifted her chin to meet the pressure of Juliya’s hand against the curve of her neck – warm enough to make the fine hairs on her back prickle with gooseflesh and not just from the chill of that basement smelling like damp wool and forgotten gym socks even after all these years.

"No rules,” Zoey echoed, letting those words fall away as if they'd been whispered between two lovers sharing a stolen cigarette on a fire escape instead of speaking in this space smelling of old towels and chalk dust clinging to the bare bulb hanging from the cracked ceiling like some last-ditch hope for light against the encroaching dark.

The timer hadn’t even rung out its second gong before Juliya was already tugging at Zoey's shirttail – that same kind of impatient, possessive movement she used when trying to coax a particularly stubborn kettlebell back into place on its hook after an awkward lift had sent it spinning away. It wasn’t rough exactly; more like one hand holding the sun and the other pulling down from dusk until there was nothing left but that twilight space between them where shadows pooled in thick, clinging inkblots under bare bulb light.

“Let me see you move,” Juliya breathed against her ear—a sound rasped through with something wilder than lust, something closer to hunger, like a wolf calling across a frozen marsh on the first night of spring thaw. She meant every inch of Zoey's length from scalp to heel before she thought about the rest.

Zoey let that hand tug at her cotton shorts down over her hips –  the way Juliya’s fingers curled against skin like those same rough-hewn knuckles always seemed to find purchase on anything within reach -  like a blacksmith testing for strength in a horseshoe or a potter's hands feeling out the curve of an unglazed pot before it went into the kiln.

The last knot came undone with that kind of urgency, and then the shorts twisted away from her like a snake shedding skin – not shed but unwound and cast aside without needing to be held anymore.  Zoey didn’t bother pulling the rest off; just let Juliya’s hand find purchase on those damp cotton fibers still clinging to her hips, then slide them down to meet the waistband of her leggings before she yanked it free with the same kind of careless strength Zoey had come to associate with Juliya's touch.

“Easy,” she murmured against the curve of Zoey’s shoulder blade, where the skin was damp and slick enough for those pale scars to look like veins of silver threading beneath the surface—like some old map showing tributaries feeding into a river that still hadn't quite figured out its course. Let me show you how much easier it is to be free.”

She didn’t wait for Zoey’s reply, not because there wasn’t one ready and waiting in her chest like a fist clenching against something too tight –  but Juliya was already tugging at the waistband of those leggings, letting them fall away from Zoey’s hips with that same careless strength as she shifted again to let skin find its purchase on skin.

“Fourth,” Juliya breathed out, tasting more like a promise than a question as she ran those fingertips down the length of Zoey’s spine –  those pale scars etching their way across her back like they were trying to climb from one valley to another, “No time limit.” Then she added something softer against the curve of Zoey’s hipbone that was more sigh than sound –  “Yours now,” before tilting her head down to graze the hollow between Zoey's shoulder blades with those teeth and a low growl vibrating through everything like the tremor of an aftershock from a long-dead earthquake.

And Zoey understood: not just what Juliya meant about time, or rules, or whose turn it was to make this space bloom hot enough to sear itself into their bones – but that they were both already claiming territory in each other's scent and heat now, marking the boundaries of where they could go next with the same possessive instinct as those wild things who left their shape etched on trees by rubbing bark against bark until something was made permanent in the world.

She tasted it on her tongue when Juliya tilted back enough for her to lick at that hollow between shoulder blades –  a place she’d always kept hidden like some secret garden tucked away behind a wall of ribs and vertebrae, where she held onto both the faint memory of her own mother's scent and the wild tang of blood left on bare skin after a tough sparring session with one of those college boys who couldn’t quite grasp that it wasn’t just muscle or bravado they were trying to win; it was something more profound than that, something older than rules.

The timer didn't matter anymore – not when the clockwork inside Zoey already hummed in sync with Juliya's pulse beating against her cheekbone like a trapped moth fluttering against damp windowpanes after dark or the scent of pine needles and ozone mixed with blood and something wilder blooming beneath it all - something that tasted like home finally found after too many lifetimes wandering under too-bright skies.

It would be a long time before either one needed to breathe again.

The air in the basement hung thick as if a furnace had been left on too high, not with heat alone but that scent-sweat metallic tang Juliya carried like an aura now – ozone-tinged pine needles and something more bottomless Zoey couldn’t quite place yet. The kind of smell that made it hard to remember what ‘before’ meant anymore.

Zoey watched Juliya go still beneath her hand, resting on the curve of her hipbone, skin slick enough to make a fine tremor pass through her palm with each slow intake of breath.  That pause wasn't just about finding purchase; it was like one of those moments before you drop into a deep squat –  muscles bunching tight as if bracing themselves against something more significant than their weight.

Except what Juliya was holding back against was more than the pull of gravity or Zoey’s hand on her hipbone, though both were strong enough to anchor a boat in a storm-tossed bay. This was that tautening like a coiled spring waiting for release –  like a wildcat crouched low over its kill before it sunk those claws in deep enough to tear away all the pretense of keeping things neat and whole.

And Zoey, well – her chest had always been one of those places where she held onto everything too tightly; not just breath and the steady thump of that pulse against ribs but memories like old photographs tucked under glass on dusty shelves -  the kind that faded a little more each time you touched them. She didn’t need to think about which ones were surfacing now –  not when those same muscles in her back had already begun to bunch tightly with anticipation as if she was bracing for impact, not just from whatever Juliya planned to throw at her but from the feeling of being thrown herself; flung sideways and off-kilter like that moment you've been waiting all day to take a deep breath before finally letting go –  that perfect exhale where it felt less like air leaving your lungs than some floodgate opening up inside.

It was Juliya’s hand that broke the quiet first –  the same one that had been resting on her hipbone now snaked around the small of Zoey's back, fingers flexing into that hollow between spine and muscle where it felt more like skin-on-skin than bone meeting flesh. Not rough or possessive exactly; more like finding purchase on a well-worn map –  like those old hands knew the geography of her already even better than she did herself.

“Let go,” Juliya breathed into the hollow between her shoulder blades, not asking so much as stating something building between them like pressure in a sealed jar since they'd started stripping down – “Of everything else.”

It was just a hand on her back, but it felt more substantial than any of those gym-issue barbells she'd wrestled with for years.  The grip tightened ever so slightly as if confirming the purchase, not letting go entirely until that last inch of something shifted between them - maybe the space where Zoey’s ribs met those shoulder blades – and Juliya was pressing her cheek against the smooth curve of her spine instead of just resting the knuckles of one hand on it. 

Then she pulled back hard enough to make Zoey gasp, not from pain or being yanked but because it felt like someone had suddenly unspooled the world around her so she could only see inside herself anymore - a single cell under a microscope, maybe, where everything was happening at once and in slow motion.

Zoey’s hands flew up instinctively –  one to grip the damp trimmed fur of Juliya’s muff (not quite sure what else they were supposed to do now) and the other clawing for purchase on that curve between the shoulder blade and ribcage, finding only smooth skin slick with sweat where she was trying to anchor herself.

It wasn't just muscled bunching tight anymore; it felt like those same tendons had become ropes someone had tied around her heart –  not so much squeezing the air out of her lungs as pulling them open wide so that every breath rasped in ragged, surprised gulps. Juliya’s scent filled up the space left by everything else – pine and ozone still there but layered with something she hadn’t smelled before: a metallic tang that wasn't blood exactly but closer to how iron tasted on your tongue when you'd been working too hard at it all day.

Then, Juliya was gone from behind her, and one moment, Zoey had been anchored against the solidity of Juliya’s body pressed there. The next, she was being rotated forward on that single hand-hold, like a figure in an old carousel still catching its momentum before starting to spin.  The world tilted sideways – not just physically but as if someone had turned the volume knob on all those long-dormant memories up to eleven - and the basement floor vanished beneath her.

For a heartbeat (or maybe two heartbeats), they were suspended that way – Zoey's face buried in Juliya’s shoulder where her cheek was still damp with sweat, hands scrabbling for purchase before gravity finally yanked them down together in a tangle of limbs.  Not onto the floor exactly, more like collapsing into each other so abruptly it felt as if the air itself had been sucked out from between them and their bodies were trying to fill the vacuum.

The slap was the first thing that registered beneath the breathless tangle of limbs and tangled breaths. Not hard enough to hurt – more like a startled paw swatting at the air.  Juliya’s hand came down across Zoey's exposed shoulder blade just as she rolled off center, trying to get purchase on something solid besides slick skin.

That palm wasn’t rough; it had too much purpose to be anything but the deliberate sweep of a brush clearing away cobwebs in some forgotten corner – like Juliya was using that touch to erase what Zoey’d been clinging onto before she could even define it for herself.  Like trying to hold onto a handful of sand as you're being pulled under by something bigger than yourself - that quick shift from desperate scramble-grasp to the feeling of being swallowed whole by something else entirely, not quite evil, just…everything else suddenly meaning less.

Then came the second slap – this time across Zoey’s cheekbone, not hard enough to sting but there. Enough to make her mouth open in that surprised exhale before she even registered the rest:  the way Juliya had scrambled up on top of her with those long legs tangled around her like a wild vine finding purchase and twisting tighter into the space between Zoey’s knees and ribs, pinning her down as sure as if they’d been wrestling for a position in some mud pit instead of damp basement concrete.

The rest of it came in waves, the sudden scramble to find purchase again against slick skin that was already slicker than any bar soap could manage. Zoey's hands clawed at Juliya's shoulder blades, trying to get purchase on something more substantial than those slippery, tense muscles bunching beneath her touch and couldn’t entirely stop the wildness of their movements from throwing them both off-kilter –  a sudden scramble for a grip that had less to do with wrestling technique now and everything to do with animal instinct.

There was a moment where Juliya ended up on top of Zoey's chest, legs tangled around her waist like the spokes of a wheel trying to find purchase against something too slick to hold onto properly –  and for just long enough that Zoey’s hand snagged on the damp curve of Juliya’s shoulder blade. She couldn’t quite decide whether it was a fist clenching tight or if those fingers had been working like claws in some forgotten animal memory.

Then came the punch to her chest, hard enough this time to make Zoey suck in air sharp and ragged – as someone had suddenly turned the volume knob on everything else up to eleven while everything inside her chest was still tuned to the dull hum of static.

It wasn’t about winning or losing anymore, not in any sense she’d ever known. Not even that raw territorial claim you sometimes felt after a good set with weights –  more like those moments when a cat finally figured out it could bat at things without them staying still forever. Then everything became a pendulum swing between letting go of what they'd been trying to hold onto and finding the same thing again somewhere else.

The air was thick enough now to taste the sweat mixing with something fiercer –  something less like pine needles and ozone and more like the tang you got right before blood started to thin out in a fevered pulse. Zoey’s hands scrabbled at Juliya’s thighs, trying to find purchase on those smooth, slick surfaces instead of skin that felt too taut over muscle for proper gripping.  Then came the shove back with her forehead – Juliya's hand moving from one shoulder blade to grip the curve of her lower ribs and use it as a lever while she rolled off Zoey’s chest entirely - leaving her tangled in those legs, trying to find purchase against slick thigh-muscles that felt too close to being overcooked meat for comfort.

There were more scrambles and punches, thrown less with knuckles aimed at some specific point on the skin and more like a dog shaking out its coat—loose fists and open palms brushing past shoulders and ribs while both of them tried to find purchase again in the space that was closing down around them.

The only thing that held Zoey together anymore was the way Juliya kept pushing against those identical forearms with her hips - like trying to shove a stubborn door closed after she’d already been dragged through it.  That relentless pressure was what finally made her surrender – not because of any given but because there wasn’t anywhere else left for her body to go except down into that curve where Juliya’s hip met her thigh, right into the space between those legs like some kind of hollowed-out cave being pressed against. 

Juliya's hips tilted forward then – not a sudden push, more like an easing into something she already had planned out with a lifetime of muscle memory behind it – and Zoey’s arms finally gave way entirely, rolling around Juliya’s back as if those muscles themselves were the last hinges on that door.

The moment they settled, there was less like pins dropping and more like all the air between them being sucked out at once -  the kind of vacuum where you can still see what's left behind. Still, it's hanging suspended in that emptiness with an unnatural clarity as if the world had been distilled to just those two shapes pressed together.

Juliya’s head came down then – not onto Zoey’s chest this time but resting against the hollow between her shoulder blades where she always kept those old photographs tucked under glass and dust.   The way Juliya breathed was ragged, shallow enough that it felt like a tremor passing through both of them whenever she inhaled or exhaled. Every muscle in her back tensed as if bracing itself against something more significant than either of them – not just the weight of Zoey’s legs folded over those hips, but the rest of the world outside this space they'd carved out.

There wasn’t a single word spoken after that – just breaths and the way Juliya held still long enough to make Zoey think maybe she'd passed out from exertion until, finally, one hand shifted its position and snaked back between her shoulder blades. Not to hold, not to pull at anything loose like before, but to press palm flat against skin and stroke slowly –  not with those rough-hewn knuckles that always seemed to find purchase on everything else, but something smoother than she’d ever felt on Juliya.

Like the inside of a hand holding back water after someone's been swimming too long - smooth enough to spread across her skin, leaving a trail as if it was trying to hold onto what Zoey was letting go of instead of pulling herself into it like always.