Limits
1111 Words
The days that followed passed in a strange, restless blur.
Iris trained.
Not because she needed to burn energy—she never seemed to run out of it—but because movement kept her mind quiet. Stillness invited questions. Motion buried them. Hours slipped by unnoticed as drills bled into sparring, sparring into endurance runs. The training bay became a second skin—rubber mats beneath her boots, the sharp scent of sweat and metal in the air, the constant low hum of systems running overhead.
She never slowed.
Never felt the drag of exhaustion in her limbs. Never felt the familiar ache others complained about after pushing too hard.
No matter how long she trained, she didn’t get tired.
She watched it happen around her, though. Team members cycling in and out of the bay, muscles trembling, lungs burning. Some joked about it. Some cursed. Some collapsed onto the benches with water bottles pressed to their faces like lifelines.
Iris kept going.
By the time the lights in the training bay dimmed to signal evening, she was still moving—breathing steady, pulse even, body humming with unused momentum. Sweat slicked her skin, but it felt more like surface heat than exertion. She shut down the sparring drone with a sharp strike, catching it mid-rotation and forcing it into standby with practiced efficiency.
She could have kept going.
She often did.
“I don’t get it,” Elias said from the edge of the mat.
The sound of his voice cut cleanly through her focus.
She paused mid-stretch, rolling her neck once before turning to face him. He’d been watching for a while now—arms crossed, shoulders relaxed in a way that fooled people into underestimating him. His expression was unreadable, dark eyes tracking her with that same careful attention he used on missions.
“Get what?” she asked.
He nodded toward the equipment, the powered drone still humming softly behind her. “You’ve been at it all day.”
“So?” She reached for her towel, wiping sweat from her brow.
“So most people would be dead on their feet,” he said. “You’re not even breathing hard.”
Iris frowned, genuinely considering it. She checked in with her body out of habit—lungs, muscles, heartbeat. Everything felt… fine. More than fine. Ready.
“I don’t feel tired.”
Elias pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “That’s not normal.”
She shrugged, rolling her shoulders, feeling joints settle smoothly into place. “Neither is half the stuff we do.”
He didn’t smile.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she said quietly. “Sometimes… I don’t even feel tired at night. I just… decide to sleep.”
The words lingered between them, heavier than she’d intended. She hadn’t planned to say that out loud. Hadn’t really thought about how strange it sounded until it was already there, hanging in the air.
Elias studied her for a long moment.
Then he stepped onto the mat without another word.
“If you’re not tired,” he said, voice low and controlled, “prove it.”
Iris’s brow lifted. “You want to spar?”
“I want to see where your limit is.”
A familiar heat sparked in her chest—not anger exactly, but something sharper. Challenge. Scrutiny. That constant need of his to test her, to look for cracks that never seemed to satisfy him.
“You won’t,” she said flatly.
He gave a tight, humorless smile. “We’ll see.”
She didn’t bother responding.
She moved.
The first exchange was fast—too fast for anyone watching to follow. A blur of strikes and counters, boots sliding across the mat, the sharp sound of impact echoing through the bay. Iris flowed from one motion to the next without thinking, body aligning instinctively with every opening.
Elias was good.
Better than most.
He matched her pace, anticipated her angles, forced her to adapt instead of relying on speed alone. That alone surprised her. Most sparring partners fell into predictable rhythms after a few exchanges. Elias didn’t. He learned in real time, adjusted mid-movement, pressed where she expected him to retreat.
She feinted left, went low, twisted out of his reach—
—and he caught her wrist mid-spin.
Momentum carried them together before she could break free. She wrenched her arm loose, pivoted sharply, swept his leg. He stumbled, recovered, came back harder, driving her backward with a flurry of controlled strikes that forced her to rethink her footing.
They collided again.
This time, Elias hooked her arm and turned, using her own movement against her. Iris felt the mat hit her back a split second before his weight followed—controlled, precise, pinning her wrists above her head with practiced restraint.
She froze.
Not because she couldn’t move.
Because she hadn’t expected him to be that close.
His knee braced between her legs, forearms locked, body warm and solid above hers. The air between them felt charged, tight. His face hovered inches from hers, breath steady, eyes dark and searching—not triumphant, not angry. Assessing.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
The world narrowed to the space between them.
Iris became acutely aware of everything.
The strength in his grip. The tension in his jaw. The faint scar near his temple she’d never noticed this close. The way his chest rose and fell, measured and controlled. How easy it would be to tilt her chin up.
How dangerous that thought was.
His gaze flicked to her mouth.
Then back to her eyes.
“Still not tired,” he murmured.
Her pulse finally betrayed her, hammering hard against her ribs in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
“Get off me,” she said, voice steady despite it.
Something unreadable crossed his face.
He released her at once, rolling back and rising to his feet like the moment hadn’t happened at all. Like he hadn’t just pinned her, challenged her control, and shattered the illusion that she was untouchable.
Iris sat up slowly, irritation and something far more complicated tightening her chest.
Yeah.
She definitely wasn’t tired.
And that might be the problem.
Elias stood a few feet away now, hands resting on his hips, gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder. He looked like he wanted to say something. Like there was a question sitting heavy on his tongue.
Then the alert tone cut through the air before he could.
Sharp. Urgent.
Alex’s voice followed over the intercom.
“Everyone to briefing. Now.”
The tension broke.
But it didn’t disappear.
- Writer
