"I'll wait in the car. Unless you want me inside. There's a lounge area."
"The car is fine."
"It's not about my comfort."
"I know. It's okay. If anything weird happens, you're twenty seconds away."
He looks like he wants to argue. "Right. Okay. Ninety minutes. Text me when you're done."
"I'll text you."
For half a second, he hesitates, like his body wants to lean down and press his mouth to my hair the way he used to before shifts. He doesn't. His hands stay firmly in his pockets.
"Have fun," he says.
The words land in my chest like something unfamiliar.
"I'll try."
Inside, the gym smells like rubber, metal, sweat, and artificial citrus. The front desk beta scans me in, slaps a visitor sticker on my shirt, and points me toward Studio C.
The music's louder down the hall. Studio C is mirrored all along one wall, wooden floor polished smooth. People filter in with gym bags and water bottles.
A woman in her forties with a high ponytail and megawatt smile stands at the front, adjusting a speaker. "Hi, hi, come on in! Welcome to Intro Fusion! If this is your first time, don't worry, we're not auditioning for anything. If you have two left feet, that's fine—we're notlooking for Rockettes, just people who'd rather sweat than scroll through Instagram for another hour."
A few people laugh.
"Shoes off if you like. We'll do warm-up barefoot, then see what your joints prefer. Names?"
She goes around the circle. When it's my turn: "Verena. Vee is fine."
"Hi, Vee. Welcome. Any injuries I should know about?"
"Bruised knees," I say before I can stop myself, then quickly add, "From gardening. It's okay. I'll modify."
Her gaze lingers a half-second on my face, but she just nods. "Listen to your body. No heroics."
I nod.
Warm-up starts. The music's mid-tempo, some pop remix. We roll shoulders, stretch arms, bend and sway. My body complains at first—hips tight, back stiff—but as the minutes tick by, things slide into alignment. Blood moves. Muscles remember they exist for something other than crouching and holding tension.
On my left, a girl about my age with bubblegum-pink nails and a messy bun bounces in place, grinning. "I'm Jess," she whispers between stretches. "I signed up drunk. I'm regretting it sober."
I huff a laugh. "Too late now."
"Exactly. If I die, tell my mom I went doing jazz hands."
On my right, a compact, curly-haired guy in a tank top shifts nervously. His scent is unmistakable omega: warm honey, something floral, threaded with nerves.
"First time?" I ask.
He nods, chewing his lip. "Yeah. Uh. My name's Noah. My alpha wanted me to get out of the house more. I think this isn't what he meant."
Jess leans across me. "Dance class is exactly what he meant. We're going to be graceful and coordinated and hot by the end of this."
"I tripped over my own sweat towel earlier," Noah says bleakly.
"Progress is not linear," I say, and he snorts.
