Re-Awakened :I Ascend as an SSS-Ranked Dragon Summoner

Chapter 740: Innocent Miss Brooks

Noah walked down the corridor toward the storage room, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and his eyes fixed on the metal seams of the floor plates. He was twenty-one, he had killed things that could swallow a city block whole, and he had survived a four horn in the middle of an evolution that would have turned a normal man’s biological structure into a puddle of grey soup.

Yet, as he approached the door, his heart was doing a weird, rhythmic stutter that had absolutely nothing to do with him being in a bad situation as he was with Kruel.

’This is a bad idea,’ he thought, his brain immediately offering up a highly vivid, entirely unprompted mental recap of the morning session. ’A thoroughly, spectacularly bad idea. She’s a commander. She used to be my instructor. There’s an entire hierarchy built precisely to stop people from doing whatever it is I’m doing right now.’

He paused five feet from the bulkhead, watching the little green indicator light pulse.

The image of her from hours ago wouldn’t leave his head. He could almost still see it from the previous day. The way the training clothes clung to the hard, athletic curve of her hips, the clean slope of her neck when her hair was up and that gallop across her chest.

Not to mention, the specific, clinical way she had adjusted his posture with hands that felt entirely too warm. He hadn’t been looking, not officially, but a man didn’t need to look directly at a sun to know it was bright.

’But you’re going back anyway,’ the smaller, less responsible voice in his head pointed out. ’Because a part of you wants to see if the second time is like the first. Because you’ve spent two years in the dirt and the dark, and suddenly there’s a woman who smells like cedar and isn’t afraid of the fact that you can erase a mountain nor are you afraid that it could get more complicated than it needs to be,’

He cleared his throat, wiped a hand across his jaw, and hit the door control.

"You’re late," Miss Brooks said without looking up.

She was already on the mat, sitting on her shins with her hands resting flat on her thighs. The uniform was completely gone. She had changed into a dark, charcoal-grey set that looked less like standard military physical training gear and significantly more like something designed to test the tensile limits of synthetic fabric. Her hair was piled into a loose, messy knot at the crown of her head, a few dark strands sticking to the damp skin at the nape of her neck.

"Storm tried to eat a maintenance drone," Noah said, stepping into the room and letting the bulkhead hiss shut behind him. "Took ten minutes to get it out of his mouth."

"Did he damage the hull?"

"No. Just the drone’s dignity."

Brooks let out a small, huffing breath through her nose, the closest she usually got to an actual laugh, and gestured to the second mat she had laid out parallel to hers. "Jacket off. T-shirt is fine, but if you’re wearing that heavy leather, you’re going to snap a tendon."

Noah unzipped his jacket and tossed it onto one of the green supply crates stacked against the wall. Underneath, he was just in a dark grey compression shirt that stuck to his shoulders, the fabric showing the thick, blocky lines of his upper back and the faint, pale silver edges of old entry wounds near his collarbone from before he got the system.

He stepped onto the mat, feeling the slight give of the rubber under his bare feet. It felt ridiculously flimsy compared to the steel decks he usually walked on.

"We’re doing a deeper sequence this time," Brooks said, standing up in a single, fluid motion that didn’t involve her hands touching the floor once. The movement was entirely driven by her core and thighs, the grey fabric of her leggings stretching tight across the dense, heavy muscles of her quads. "The session before was just a baseline. Now we look at thoracic mobility. You’re holding too much tension in the middle of your spine. It affects your center of gravity when you shift weight."

’My center of gravity is fine,’ Noah thought, keeping his face entirely blank. ’I literally hovered over an active volcano that we caused a while ago when I fought Kruel. But sure, let’s talk about my spine.’

"Face the crates," she commanded, stepping behind him. "Feet hip-width apart. Inhale, bring the arms up. Exhale, fold forward from the hips. Keep the knees soft."

Noah followed the instruction, letting his hands drop toward the floor. He wasn’t particularly flexible, not in the traditional sense, but his body obeyed orders well enough. He hung there for a second, his fingers brushing the mat, his hamstrings giving him a dull, tight ache that felt surprisingly human.

"Don’t bounce," her voice came from right above him.

Then she stepped into his line of sight, dropping down onto her own mat to demonstrate the next transition. She didn’t do it standardly. She dropped her hands, walked them forward, and pushed her hips back into that same upside-down shape from the other session, the downward dog.

Noah stayed in his forward fold for an extra two seconds just because his brain refused to coordinate the muscles required to stand up.

From his position, slightly lower and directly to the side, the grey leggings were doing things that felt like a direct violation of the station’s code of conduct. The fabric was stretched so thin across the rounded, heavy slope of her glutes that he could see the distinct, deep crevice where the seam met. Her hips were high, her back perfectly flat, and the entire lower half of her body was framed against the sterile white light of the storage room like a textbook illustration of things Noah shouldn’t be thinking about.

’The wall,’ Noah told himself, his eyes darting instantly to the stenciled serial number on the nearest crate. ’Look at the crate. NX-4412. It’s a standard ration container. It holds approximately forty-eight meal packs. The manufacturing date is probably 2077.’

"Noah," she said, her voice muffled by her arms. "Move into the posture."

"Right."

He walked his hands forward, mimicking her shape. He kept his eyes strictly between his own thumbs, staring at the black rubber of his mat until his vision started to blur at the edges.

"Your lower back is rounding," she said.

He heard her feet pad against the floor as she came out of the pose. A second later, she was standing over him. She didn’t just give a verbal cue; she knelt down beside his mat, her knees inches from his ribs, and placed one hand flat against the small of his back and the other on the center of his chest.

The warmth of her palms went straight through his compression shirt. Her thumb brushed against the very top of his waistband, a casual, accidental touch that felt like a low-voltage wire hitting his skin.

"Push your chest toward your thighs," she murmured, her face so close to his shoulder he could feel the faint puff of her breath. "There. Feel that?"

’I feel a lot of things,’ Noah thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth clicked. ’None of them are my thoracic spine.’

"Yeah," he said out loud, his voice coming out a little rougher than he intended. "I feel it."

"Hold it for five breaths," she said, her hands lingering for one beat, two beats, before she stood back up. "Then shift forward into a plank. We’ll do a low push-up transition. *Chaturanga*."

Noah shifted his weight forward, his shoulders coming directly over his wrists. He was solid here. This was just a strength hold, and he had plenty of that. He kept his core locked, his legs straight, his eyes fixed on the front edge of his mat.

Then Brooks dropped into the same position right next to him, barely a foot away, facing the same direction but slightly ahead so he could see her form.

"As you lower," she said, her voice dropping into a lower, more deliberate rhythm as she began to bend her elbows, "keep the arms tucked into the ribs. Don’t let the shoulders drop below the elbows."

She hovered three inches off the floor.

Because of the angle, her sports top, which had a wide, scooped neck, succumbed entirely to gravity. Her breasts, large and heavy, hung down toward the mat, the deep, dark cleavage between them completely exposed. The sheer volume of her chest was pressing against the black fabric, the soft, pale skin of the upper slopes catching the light as she held the immense weight of her torso using nothing but her triceps and core.

Noah’s breath caught in his throat. He forgot to lower himself. He just stayed at the top of the plank, staring down at the side profile of her chest as she hovered there, her body perfectly straight, her chest nearly spilling out of the top with every slow, controlled inhalation.

’This is ridiculous,’ he thought, his chest heaving slightly as his own muscles started to burn from the extended hold. ’She knows exactly what’s happening. There is no way a woman with a tactical degree doesn’t understand angles and vectors. She’s doing this on purpose. Or she genuinely doesn’t think of me as a man, which is significantly worse.’

"Noah," she said, her eyes looking sideways at him from her position three inches off the rubber. "You’re hovering at the top. Lower down."

"My elbows are stiff," he lied smoothly.

"Then drop your knees."

"No."

He lowered himself, his chest stopping exactly level with hers. For a fraction of a second, they were just two people suspended over the floor, their faces close enough that he could see the tiny amber flecks in her dark eyes and the small, silver ring she wore in her left earlobe. Her chest was right there, the heavy curve of it rising and falling, the scent of her skin filling the narrow gap between their mats.

She didn’t look away. She held his gaze with a cool, unblinking intensity that felt like a challenge. It wasn’t the look an instructor gave a student. It was the look a woman gave a man when she was waiting to see who would blink first.

"Upward dog," she said softly, breaking the silence as she pushed her hands into the floor, straightening her arms and arching her back.

The transition was spectacular in the worst way possible for Noah’s mental stability. As her hips dropped toward the floor and her chest lifted, her breasts settled back against her torso, the movement causing them to jiggle slightly under the tight black top. Her throat was exposed, her collarbones prominent, and her hips hovered just above the mat, the grey leggings pulling tight across her pelvis.

Noah pushed himself up too, his arms locking out, his back arching. He looked straight at the wall ahead of him, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

’Look at the wall,’ he repeated. ’NX-4412. Rations. Forty-eight packs. Survival probability in the eastern sector is sixty-four percent.’

"Good," she said, her voice smooth as she tucked her toes and pushed back into the downward dog once more. "Flow through it again. Move with the breath, Noah. You’re fighting the movement instead of letting it happen."

"I’m not fighting," he grunted, shifting his hips back up.

"Your shoulders are practically up to your ears," she said, walking over to him again. This time, she didn’t use her hands. She stood directly behind him, her shins brushing against his lower legs as he held the pose. "Drop them down. Create space between the ears and the joints."

He tried to comply, but having her standing that close, her body effectively framing his rear, wasn’t doing wonders for his coordination.

"Now," she said, her voice coming from right above his hip. "Step your right foot forward between your hands. High lunge."

Noah brought his right foot forward, his bootless sole slapping against the mat, and lifted his torso, balancing on the ball of his left foot. He brought his hands to his hips, trying to stabilize himself.

Brooks stepped in front of him, her own left foot forward, dropping into a deep, wide stance. Her front thigh was completely parallel to the floor, the fabric of her leggings stretched so tight over her glutes that Noah could see the faint, white line of her underwear beneath the charcoal grey. The pants had ridden up into the small of her back, exposing a neat, triangular patch of smooth skin just above her pelvis.

"Sink deeper," she said, her hands reaching toward the ceiling. "Keep the back leg straight. You’re leaning forward. Bring your shoulders over your hips."

She reached out and took his wrists, pulling his arms upward. Her grip was firm, her skin slightly slick with sweat now, and as she pulled, her chest lifted, the thin fabric of her top outline the hard, distinct shape of her nipples through the material.

Noah’s eyes dropped before he could stop them.

’Damn it,’ he thought, his throat dry as sandpaper. ’Stop looking. She’s going to notice. If she hasn’t already.’

She didn’t let go of his wrists. She stood there, holding him in place, her eyes fixed on his face. There was a tiny, almost invisible twitch at the corner of her mouth, a ghost of a smile that disappeared before it could fully form.

"Are you tired, Noah?" she asked, her voice dropping into that quiet, confidential tone she had used on the observation deck.

"No," he said.

"You’re breathing hard for someone who doesn’t get tired."

"The air in here is stale," he said, keeping his eyes locked onto her forehead. "The circulation on the lower levels always sucks."

"Is that what it is?"

"Yeah."

She let go of his wrists, her fingers sliding slowly down his forearms before dropping away completely. "Switch sides. Right foot back, left foot forward."

They spent the next twenty minutes moving through the sequence, the room growing steadily warmer as the station’s automated environment controls failed to account for two people doing high-intensity physical work in a space meant for crates. Every transition felt like a tactical minefield for Noah. Every time she bent over, the pants rode up, showing the deep, tight curve of her rear; every time she held a plank or a low push-up, her chest hovered inches from the floor, heavy and full and entirely too close to his face.

And through all of it, neither of them said a word about it.

She kept her voice flat, clinical, and completely professional, using words like *alignment* and *thoracic rotation* and *core engagement* while her body did things that were purely, aggressively carnal. Noah kept his jaw set, clearing his throat every five minutes, the thoughts in his head were a chaotic mess of military data and sheer, unadulterated frustration.

’She knows,’ he thought as they finally dropped onto their knees for the cool-down. ’There is absolutely zero chance she doesn’t know. The way she’s positioning herself, the way she keeps looking at me when she thinks I’m looking at the floor... she’s playing a very specific game.’

’And the worst part,’ he admitted to himself, his eyes trailing down the long, smooth line of her back as she sat on her heels, ’is that I don’t want her to stop.’

"Sit comfortably," Brooks said, crossing her legs in the center of her mat. She rested her wrists on her knees, her palms facing up, her chest still rising and falling with her breath. The black top had shifted slightly to the left, exposing the pale edge of her bra strap and a hint of the softer skin near her armpit. "Close your eyes."

Noah sat down opposite her, about three feet away, and crossed his legs. He didn’t close his eyes immediately. He looked at her face, the straight, aristocratic nose, the full lips that were slightly parted, the way her eyelashes cast long, delicate shadows against her cheekbones in the amber light.

She looked entirely peaceful. Innocent, almost. Like she hadn’t spent the last forty-five minutes putting on a masterclass in silent provocation.

"Noah," she said without opening her eyes. "Eyes closed."

"Right," he said, shutting them instantly.

The darkness didn’t help. Without the visual distractions, his brain just went to work on the sensory data it had left. The smell of her, that clean, musky cedar scent mixed with the sharp tang of sweat, seemed to double in intensity. He could hear the soft, rhythmic rustle of her top against her skin every time she took a deep breath.

’You’re a sovereign entity,’ he told himself, trying to channel the cold, detached mindset he used when he was looking at a threat. ’You have a ruler bloodline running through you..." .

Those last words made his thoughts stray.

"Could this new hyper perversed side be because of the draconic side of my evolution?"

Or maybe he was just finding something to blame for his overly freaky mind.

He went back to chanting a mantra ’You have lots of void coins’

’But right now,’ the voice whispered back, ’you’d trade half those coins to know what she looks like without those grey pants.’

"Inhale for four seconds," her voice came through the dark, low and smooth. "Hold for four. Exhale for four."

Noah followed the rhythm, forcing his lungs to expand and contract, forcing his heart to slow down its frantic pace. Gradually, the tension in his shoulders began to give way, the thick, heavy coils of energy inside his core settling into a quiet, ambient hum. It was the first time in months he had felt his body just *exist* without preparing for a kinetic strike or an aggressive movement.

They stayed like that for what felt like ten minutes, the storage room completely silent save for the dual rhythm of their breathing.

"Open your eyes," she said.

Noah opened them.

She was looking right at him, her elbows resting on her knees, her chin cupped in one hand. The professional distance was back, but it felt thinner now, like a piece of glass that had been stressed too many times and was waiting for the right vibration to shatter completely.

"Better?" she asked.

"Better," Noah admitted, rubbing his palms against his knees. "My back doesn’t feel like a piece of old iron anymore."

"Good. Because when we hit the drop coordinates, you’re going to need every centimeter of mobility you have." She stood up, the charcoal leggings smoothing out over her hips once more, and reached for her water bottle. "Rael’s team is going to try to set the pace. They want to prove they can keep up with the legend."

Noah stood up too, grabbing his jacket off the green crate. He swung it over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on the neat, tight curve of her waist as she took a drink, her throat moving as she swallowed.

"Let them try," Noah said, his voice returning to its usual quiet confidence. "Storm needs the exercise anyway."

"He’s still outside," she noted, pointing a finger toward the bulkhead door.

Noah looked through the small glass viewing port. Sure enough, a massive, scaly blue snout was pressed flat against the glass, leaving a thick layer of frost that was slowly obscuring the view of the corridor. Storm’s large, intelligent eye was visible through the clear patch, blinking slowly as if to ask why the two-legs were taking so long in the little room.

"He thinks he’s a lapdog," Noah said, shaking his head.

"To others around here, he’s a weapon, Noah," Brooks said, her tone shifting back to that firm, military baseline as she began to roll up her mat. "Don’t forget that. The EDF doesn’t see a pet when they look at him. They see an unregistered asset."

"The EDF isn’t the one walking him," Noah said, stepping toward the door.

He paused with his hand over the control pad, looking back at her one last time. She had finished rolling her mat and was standing in the center of the cleared space, her grey-clad legs long and elegant, her chest still prominently outlined against the black top. She met his gaze with that same, unreadable expression, innocent, professional, and entirely dangerous.

’Next time,’ Noah thought, his fingers clicking the door release, ’I’m definitely looking at the heels.’

"See you at the debrief, Commander," he said.

"Don’t be late, Eclipse," she replied, her voice carrying just enough of an edge to let him know the session was officially over.

The door slid open, and Storm immediately shoved his nose into the gap, letting out a joyful, freezing chuff that filled the storage room with a sudden cloud of white mist. Noah stepped over the dragon’s snout, digging his hands into his jacket pockets as he walked out into the bright, sterile light of the Vanguard corridor, his mind already calculating the hours until the drop, and the hours until the next recovery cycle.