I grab my new gym bag, fill it with the essentials, then I head out.
Downtown Idaho Falls isn't exactly bustling, but the afternoon sunlight makes everything feel lighter somehow. People pass me on the sidewalk and I don't immediately catalog all the ways they're judging me.
Some of them aren't even looking at me.
The ones who are... they're not looking at me like I'm something broken they need to avoid.
I feel satisfied. Complete, almost.
Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I should be doing, instead of hiding in a blanket fort pretending the world doesn't exist.
And maybe—just maybe—I'm thinking about Ryan.
Not in the usual way. Not the desperate, frantic fantasizing that used to consume me about fictional men doing terrible things.
Just... Ryan.
How he smiled at the airport when he saw my new hair."Holy shit, Scarletta. You look amazing."
How he insisted on helping me with my suitcases even though I told him I could manage.
How he opened the Uber door and told me"See you soon,"like he actually meant it.
I was genuinely flattered that he evennoticedme.
I'd noticedhim, obviously. You can't miss Ryan at Iron River Fitness. His office sits elevated in the center of the gym floor like some kind of glass fishbowl, and he's always up there—watching his clientele with this benevolent intensity, like he actually cares whether people hit their goals.
He's objectively gorgeous. Tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly sculpted in that way that suggests he actually lives the lifestyle he sells. His body is covered in bird tattoos—and I meancovered. Sleeves that disappear under his shirt, ink crawling up his neck, vanishing beneath his collar.
They're not random flash pieces scattered across his skin. They're intricate, custom work. Each bird is different—ravens, swallows, hawks—rendered in this incredible detail that suggests hours in the chair and serious money spent.
Beautiful doesn't quite cover it. They're art. The kind of tattoos that tell a story, even if I don't know what that story is yet.
Completely out of my league.
That's where my attention stopped. Because why torture myself imagining scenarios where someone like Ryan would want someone like me?
Except...
Maybe I'm not out of his league anymore.
Maybe—and this feels dangerous to even think—maybe I'm exactly his type.
He was certainly friendly at the airport.
Reallyfriendly.
I round the corner and Iron River Fitness comes into view, all glass and chrome, and the promise of people who've figured out how to exist in their bodies without hating themselves.
My heart does this stupid flutter thing.
Because Ryan might be in there.
And for the first time in my entire goddamn life, I'm not immediately constructing elaborate reasons why someone wouldn't want me.
I push through the glass doors and immediately scan the gym floor. Looking for Ryan. Hating myself a little that I'm looking for Ryan.
Because that's what I do, right? Fixate on men who?—
