The phone buzzes. It’s not her.
ROWAN
Joy wants 10s reels in the morning. Do not limp on camera.
I send a thumbs-up. Pull on clean sweats. Lights low. The city hums through the glass. The crease is still under my feet. Eden’s still under my skin.
I promise myself I won’t look again. Then I count breaths in the dark and try not to think about the girl who’s been living rent-free in my head for years.
3
CONTROL (EDEN)
The mat smells of sweat, rubber, adrenaline. It’s barely seven, gold just starting to streak the city, and I’m already rolling with Lukas, one of the bigger guys at the gym. He’s six-three, two-twenty, breathing hard. I’m five-ten, one-fifty, and very much on top today.
He shoots for side control, throws his weight. I let him settle, trap the arm, angle my hips, lock my legs. Triangle choke. Tight. Clean. Done.
He taps. “Jesus, girl.”
I grin, swipe damp hair off my forehead. “That’s what you get for underestimating my quads.”
He flops to his back with a theatrical groan. “Remind me never to piss you off in a dark alley.”
I pop my mouthguard, chest humming with the post-roll high. This is my sanctuary, my safe place. No perfect posture, no sterile treatment tables, no egos to babysit. Just sweat, timing, and trust.
Lukas props on an elbow, smile creeping in. “Dinner Friday? Promise I won’t tap before dessert.”
“Still a no, lover boy.” I stretch out my hips, ankles cracking.
He clutches his heart. “You keep breakin’ me.”
“You’ll live.” I smirk. “Besides, we’d kill each other before appetizers.”
“Worth it,” he fires back, grinning.
He’s harmless—persistent, charming, unapologetic. Loves the chase more than the catch.
“One of these days, you’ll say yes.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Romeo.” I grab my bag. “Your girl’s out there. You’ll know when you see her.”
What I don’t add:I don’t date where I breathe. The mat is home. Here, I move without overthinking. Here the world goes quiet, and I get to be exactly who I am.
Most guys here aren’t it. They need to feel stronger to feel masculine, and the second they clock they’re not—in every lane—they don’t level up; they start sanding me down. Shrink, shush, manage. They love strength until it pushes back, adore flexibility until it comes with a voice. When they can’t steer, they pout.
Last night’s date might be different. Bennett took my hand without asking. He was steady, assured. He knew how to lead. Maybe that carries to the rest of him. Maybe the spark is a slow burn. I should give it a minute.
Not that anything’s come close since Josh. “We broke up” is the polite version. He left me for someone else is the truth.
I don’t need a man who can “handle” me. I need someone who can take my current and feed it back. Match my charge without short-circuiting when it gets real.
The more time passes, the more I wonder if that man exists. Maybe Liz is right. Maybe I’m too much.
“Same time next week?” I call to Lukas as I sling my bag.
“Count on it, gorgeous,” he says, before chugging a protein shake.
Morning chill hits as I step outside. The city’s waking up—cabs, coffee carts, the sharp lift of espresso in the air. By nine, I’m in Midtown. The clinic’s glass doors glide open, swallowing me into cool white and chrome where my other life begins.
