go forward slowly (it’s not a race to the end)

The point is—he walks in, greeted suddenly by the sight of Wynonna in tight pants, stripped down to a bra, strands of hair slicked to her forehead by sweat, muscles rippling as she charges at Dolls, a stick of wood in hand. She looks, to put it simply, delectable. Doc has always had a sore spot for the athletic ones. A second later, his gaze flits to Dolls, and he has to clench his fingers voluntarily to stop the tray from dropping to the floor and spilling their drinks. Dolls is dressed similarly to Wynonna, but sans any items of clothing covering his torso. Dips and grooves across his abdomen hint at firm muscles beneath the layer of skin and fat, a sheen of sweat making his dark skin fairly glow, and when he moves, it’s like a pit viper, hard and fast. Doc gropes for a chair with his free hand, unable to take his eyes off the fight; finds one, finally, and drops into it like a stone.