Meg left SAL's office and headed one more level down. As a field agent, she didn't have clearance to enter most of the rooms here that were reserved for surveillance and data analysis, but she did gain admittance to the workout facilities. After changing into spandex pants and a sports bra, she entered the gym. Like with everything else at CANDY, it was super futuristic and for the next hour, it was reserved just for her and Wilson Yi.

Wilson was the only CANDY agent she knew who didn't have a code name. No one ever said why and she always felt super awkward asking, so it was one of those things that remained unsaid. He was also surprisingly open about his early life growing up in Hong Kong, joining the British Special Forces as an eager twenty-year old, and finally getting recruited by the Yard. That was more than two decades ago, and every time Meg saw his amazingly buff physique, she had to remind herself that Wilson was over twice her age.

There was the saying 'black don't crack' (seriously, what was Halle Berry's secret?), and Meg really needed to find out what the equivalent was for Asians because - that's right - Wilson was fifty.

Mind. Blown.

Of course, knowing how much time he spent training and the skills he used to whip agents into shape explained the discrepancy between what she saw and the incredible birthday math. Still, Meg's pulse always quickened just a bit when she stepped into Wilson's sanctum, and today was no different. It also didn't hurt that he liked to work out half naked, giving a great view of his ripped upper body.

"Agent Capulet," he greeted her, walking up in just basketball shorts and giving her a European kiss of a peck on each cheek. "Just in time."

"I'm rather jet-lagged and I'm off again tomorrow, so I'm afraid we'll have to have a shorter than usual session today," she said, trying her best not to ogle his rock-hard pecs in the dimly lit space. Windowless - like everything else at CANDY - it looked more like the interior of a space ship than an underground training room with its shiny, dark surfaces and blue fluorescent lights.

"Well, then let's not waste another moment." Wilson smiled, brushing aside his jet black hair from his forehead and pointing to two mats side-by-side on the floor nearby. "Let's start with a bit of yoga, shall we?"

They quickly went through some warm-up poses before taking on more expert-level stretching exercises. Starting with the Side Crane pose, they focused on creating a strong central axis. With their breathing even, they pressed forward with their toes and lifted into the Reverse Triangle. Lifting their shoulders from the floor, they shifted their weight forward onto their palms and slowly raised each leg. Twisting the left leg around to rest on the right elbow, they stretched the right leg backward, high in the air.

"Hold for five, four, three, two, one and then slowly reverse," Wilson instructed in a sexy, British accent using a deep, calming voice. "Good. I think we're ready for a bit of gatka."

Getting to her feet, Meg waited for him to grab a pair of two-foot long, wooden sticks. A type of close-range combat that originated in South Asia, gatka was a safe training method for learning otherwise dangerous weapons. The sticks simulated short swords and were meant to help perfect fighting, rather than be used purely as defensive tools like many other stick-fighting methods.

When they were both armed, they began. Proper footwork and tactical body positioning were key to establishing an advantage before landing a perfect blow. One part traditional sword fight, one part martial arts, and one part rhythmic movement that was almost like a dance, the sport provided a cardio workout in addition to quickening reflexes and clearing the mind. The intense concentration necessary to parry strikes and set up hits in one, fluid swoop gave its practitioner a type of spiritual enlightenment that both drained and invigorated the body.

Clank. Twop. Swoosh. Pang. Shuffle. Clink. Whack.

The sounds of wood-on-wood contact echoed through the room, accompanied only by the duo's measured breathing and bare footsteps.

Wilson advanced with a one-two strike, but Meg deflected. It was then her turn to attack, spinning on her axis to set up a new position for the perfect blow. They continued until sweat dripped from both their faces and Meg's arm began to feel like it was made of rubber rather than flesh and bone.

A high hit from the six foot three man took her out of balance, and Meg stumbled backward before landing on the floor.

Crouching next to her, Wilson extended his arm to help Meg up. "You've done well, but I think that should do it for today."

She couldn't have agreed more. It was definitely time to end the workout, but Meg had no intention of leaving just yet. With her pulse racing, she grabbed Wilson's hand, but instead of using it to stand, Meg pulled him on top of her. Harnessing the momentum, she rolled their bodies on the floor until she was above. Sitting up, she straddled his bare torso and bent down so that her face was just inches above his.

This wasn't the first time they'd been in this position, and Wilson didn't need further encouragement. Grabbing her by the back of the head, he pulled Meg into him until his lips covered hers. 

* * *

Meg left Wilson on the training room floor still naked and dripping with even more sweat than before they began. Jumping in for a quick shower, she'd just turned on the warm stream of water when SAL buzzed in through the closed-circuit communications system. "Agent Capulet, I have a phone call for you. It's your mother and she insists it's urgent."

Author's Note: Here is the inspiration for Wilson, and while all of you under 20 are probably saying, eww 50 is old . . . well, I think this may change your mind! (Yes, this man really is 50.)