I glance over. It’s Maurice, a guy from music theory, waving as he wipes down a bench. His headphones dangle around his neck, some rap track spilling faintly out.
“Didn’t think this was your place,” he says with a grin.
“Didn’t either,” I say, sliding my bag into a locker. “Trying something new.”
“Good luck, man. Don’t let the bros eat you alive.”
I chuckle and give him a mock salute.
The thing is, the gym is kind of the opposite of the world I grew up in. My family never had time for this shit. My papá worked construction until his back gave out, then nights at a warehouse. My mamá cleaned houses, then later picked up shifts at a bakery. Their exercise was survival, hauling groceries on the bus, scrubbing floors, working three jobs. My exercise was chasing my little sister through crowded apartments and carrying amps up three flights of stairs.
LA’s supposed to be this big, diverse dream city. And in a lot of ways, it is. Walk outside campus and you’ll hear Spanish, Korean, Armenian, and Tagalog all in the same block. Street vendors selling tamales next to sushi rolls. My people are everywhere. But here, in this gym full of kids whose parents donate to the college so their names end up on plaques? Not so much.
Not that it stops me.
I head toward the free weights, pretending I know what I’m doing. Out of the corner of my eye, I find him again.
Ollie.
He’s at the squat rack, bar across his shoulders, thighs flexing under his shorts, face locked in concentration. Some of his teammates hover nearby, loud as hell, talking about last night’s party, some girl who texted back, some professor who’s “a total dick.” Ollie doesn’t join in. He nods, half smiles, but his focus stays on the bar, on the lift, on the rhythm of his breath.
His control makes sense now. You grow up in a house where every move is watched, you learn to keep yourself tight. You don’t let shit slip. Still, it’s fascinating. The frown between his brows, the way his jaw clenches when he drives up from the squat, the moment his shoulders relax only once the bar is racked.
If I could draw, I’d sketch it—every line of his cheekbones, every crease above his eyes. Instead, I use words. Words are my sketches. Words and rhyme and the buzz under my skin every time I see him.
My stomach twists. Jesus, I sound insane. Who does this? Who stalks a guy to a gym just because of one fucking blush?
Me, apparently.
I pull out a notebook from my bag, lean against the wall near the water fountain, and scribble while pretending to check my phone.
Eyes steady, shoulders locked, you never waste a move
You build a cage of discipline, a world you can’t remove
But the blush gave you away, a fire under glass
And I’m the fool who noticed, hoping it would last.
The pen scratches too fast, letters jagged. My pulse is loud in my ears.
“Hey, man, you using this bench?”
I blink up. A kid in a backward cap, shirt clinging with sweat, gestures at the empty bench next to me.
“Nope. All yours.”
“Cool, thanks.” He drops down, grunting through his set. His buddy stands behind him, encouraging in bursts: “Yeah, dude. Easy. Push. Nice.”
I tune them out and look back at Ollie.
He’s alone now, his teammates distracted at another station. He reaches for a towel, swipes it across his face, then glances around.
His gaze snags mine.
It’s not casual. Not accidental. His eyes widen, just slightly, like he’s surprised I’m here. Recognition flashes—yeah, he remembers me. The guy from the hallway, the one who caught him off guard. The one he blushed for.
Heat sparks low in my chest, sudden and sharp.
