I wakeface-first in a pile of pillows, sheets tangled around me, one leg bare, an arm tossed overhead.
My body still hums from last night, every nerve alive in that sweet, aching way that makes me both wince and smile. For a moment, I just lay there, disoriented, trying to piece together what had happened and where I was.
Then I notice.
The other side of the bed is empty and cold.
Nik is gone.
My stomach flips, and I bite back a groan.
I sit up, tugging the sheets around me, twisting my hair into a messy knot over my shoulder, pretending I’m fine. But my body betrays me, every muscle, every ache, every shiver still remembers him. The absence of his warmth beside me makes the emptiness worse.
I glance again at the cold space next to me, disappointment tightening in my chest.
Five a.m. Almost cruelly early, too early to be awake, let alone gone.
Maybe I tossed and turned too much. Perhaps he really did end up on the couch.
Groaning, I push myself up and pad barefoot into the dark living room. The couch is empty, too. I stretch, yawn, and shiver as the memory of him clinging to me makes my body ache in a way nothing else does.
In the kitchen, I spot a small, messy note in his handwriting:
Gym. – NV
Oh, holy hell.
Five in the morning. He’s been up for how long? And his first thought was to work out?
I let out a breathy, exasperated sigh. “Really? Before coffee?” I mutter to the empty room.
I reason it out: Nikolai Ivanov is a professional athlete. Early mornings, punishing workouts, constant discipline—it’s all second nature to him.
“Well, I’m awake now,” I whisper to myself. “Might as well watch him sweat.”
I pull on a sports bra and tights, lace up my running shoes, brush out my hair, and twist it into a high ponytail before slipping quietly down the hall to the gym.
He’s alone on the treadmill, pounding it hard; his pace is merciless. I climb onto an elliptical across the room, setting an easy rhythm, just enough to justify being there. My eyes, though, are fixed on him.
Every muscle flexes beneath his skin, sweat rolling over defined lines of strength. A living, breathing masterpiece in motion.
I’ve seen him like this before, but now, in the quiet morning light, it’s almost hypnotic.
He pushes himself for another fifteen minutes, his rhythm steady and unyielding, before finally slowing to a walk. Stepping off the treadmill, he heads for his water bottle and sits on one of the nearby weight benches. His back is to me, but I know he’s aware of my reflection in the mirror.
I make my way to him, unable to stop myself from reaching out, from touching his hot, slick skin.
In response, he only stares at me with an inscrutable expression.
“What now?” I sigh.
“We cannot be like this here,” he says. “I think we should cool it.”
“Cool it, like, here? In the gym? Or completely?” I ask.
He runs both hands over his face. “I don’t know.”
It almost makes me laugh how tired and miserable he looks, like some impossible answer has been keeping him awake all night.
