He doesn't notice me—yawning, hair a mess—as he heads straight to the weights in black sweats, a grey tee pulled tight across his chest.
He's always been a dark mood board. Casual and athletic cuts that fit him too well to look juvenile. More like someone who belongs on fire escapes and in diners at 2 a.m. His silver watch is the only thing that catches light—a gift from his father when he was thirteen. I remember him saying he worked out six months to earn the wrist it deserved.
Not sure if he meant it as a joke but I thought it was impressive.
Three years. Three years I haven't seen him...
I slow the treadmill just to get a better glimpse. He's still jacked, V-shaped, broad shoulders narrowing to a slim waist, muscles defined like he's some Renaissance sculptor's fantasy.
He's moving to whatever's in his ears—90's hip hop, I'd bet my life on it.
I watch his chest rise and fall. Don't get how his breathing never wavers.
He tried to teach me several times but it was impossible to focus on my diaphragm when his hands clutched my chest.
Ben controls every inhale. Every exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Damn, I think he controls all of mine too.
I need to leave. Now. Unfortunately for me, though, theelevator is past him.
So I ease off and pretend I'm wiping my face with the towel, only to hide it.
Perfect plan, apart from the fact I can barely see, so my foot knocks the edge of some shelf with a protein powder, and the noise echoes, even under my headphones.
Ben snaps his head my way and squints, like he's unsure if the crazy girl running before dawn is actually me. Then—a smile. He mouths my name and crosses the room, saying something else I can't catch.
I freeze, staring at him approaching. "What?"
He rolls his eyes when he reaches me and his fingers brush on my temples, plucking my headphones down to my neck.
"No good morning neighbor?"
I blink. Should I remind him that he has no right touching me like this? I should.
But his voice has that morning mix of rough velvet that makes me think of him in sheets and I'm kind of caught on it.
"Good morning," I say finally, wiping sweat for real this time, hoping he doesn't notice how red I am—which, yeah, fat chance—but anyway. "I didn't want to... break your focus."
"Focus. Right. That's nice of you." He nods, eyes giving away he's unconvinced.
Then he frowns and tilts his head toward my headphones, almost pressing it on my chest.
"You're listening to 'Glory Box'?" he teases like he can hear all my dirty thoughts. "In the gym?"
I jump back, jab "stop" on my phone and glare at him. "Yeah. It's on shuffle."
Right. On repeat.
I prick my ear to deflect and catch the faint echo from his. "Montel Jordan?"
