Eve flashes her ID at the turnstile, barely slowing. I watch the way her hand shakes, the way she catches her wrist to steady it before anyone can see. She heads straight for the locker room.
I pause at the entrance as she goes inside. I have half the mind to follow her in, no one here cares as long as you have the right last name. I lean against the wall and check my phone.
The Boys group chat is lit up.
Bam: you stalking the charity case still?
Jules: He’s not stalking. He’s INVESTIGATING.
Rhett: I bet she runs 8 miles and pukes on the treadmill
Bam: 10 says she’s gone in two weeks
I don’t answer. I’m not here for them.
The doors hiss open. Eve comes out in full kit—old sneakers, leggings with a frayed seam, a men’s t-shirt that covers her hips. Her hair is tied up high and tight. She walks straight to the cardio machines and claims the end treadmill, furthest from the windows.
She sets the speed, hits start, and begins running. Not a jog, not a casual stretch of legs—a full on run. She’s burning fuel like she has to finish before something catches up.
I pick the weights station across from her, benches empty except for a couple of guys trying to out-bench each other. I rack the bar and settle in, eyes never leaving her.
At first, nothing happens. Eve stares dead ahead, not looking at the TV, not at the people on either side. She runs at a punishing pace, arms rigid, mouth set in a hard line. I watch her numbers climb on the digital panel in the mirror behind her. One mile, two, three. Sweat beads at her hairline, darkens the shirt between her shoulder blades.
Most people start to fold at this point. Their shoulders hunch, pace falters, breathing grows ragged. Eve’s form is perfect. She runs like she’s trying to outlast her heartbeat.
The noise in the gym dims down as people finish up and trickle out. Only a handful of us left. I keep the same set ofweights, rotating through the motions, but it’s just a distraction. My attention is on the subtle changes in her posture, the way she recalibrates her stride when her knee starts to give, the micro-stretch of her fingers between the rails. It’s the study of endurance, and she’s the best subject I’ve seen.
Every five minutes, I check the clock. Every five, she’s still there.
The chat pings again.
Jules: she’s not stopping holy shit
Rhett: That’s psycho behavior
Bam: Colton ur gonna have to chloroform her
I reply to fuck off and stop watching us on the cams before putting my phone back in my pocket.
At minute forty-three, she stumbles. It’s tiny, barely a hitch, but I see it. She checks her time, slows to a walk. Her face is pale, eyes flat. She steps off the treadmill, wipes it down with antiseptic, and heads to the mat for cooldown.
Even now, she’s methodical. Every stretch is precise, held for a count of ten, then repeated on the other side.
When she’s finished, she wipes down the mat and makes for the water fountain. I see the way her hands shake on the bottle, the way she turns her back to the room as she drinks.
She’s stronger than she looks, but the cracks are starting.
I rack the bar one last time, walk to the fountain. She’s filling her bottle, staring at the bubbles as they rise.
I stop two feet behind her. She tenses, shoulders up, but doesn’t move.
"You always run like that, or just when someone’s chasing you?" I ask, voice low so it doesn’t carry.
She caps her bottle slow, then turns. Eyes flick up to meet mine. No fear, just calculation.
"Would you prefer I walk?" she says.
"No," I say. "I like watching you run."
