“So you’re saying my, ahem, derrière looks good? Is it Instagram worthy yet?”
Before I can react, she turns and gives a little half-twist, showing me.
“Elena,” I hiss, glancing around in absolute panic.
Damien is across the gym, reorganizing kettlebells with the intensity of a man rearranging his will to live.
She laughs softly. “Sorry, sorry. Not in front of Damien.”
“You think?” I whisper, rubbing my temple. “We literally hooked up here after hourslast week.”
She laughs again—this low, warm sound that curls into my chest and stays there.
We move through cooldown stretches.
She’s focused, and I’m pretending to be.
When we stand up, she grabs her water bottle and says casually:
“Well… that’s the last session,” she says.
My stomach drops.
She didn’t buy more?
I try to keep my voice relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs lightly. “I’m going to Cabo in a couple of weeks. Friend’s wedding. Destination thing.”
Destination.
Wedding.
Cabo.
She hadn’t told me.
Not once. Not even…hinted at it.
Something in me tightens.
“Sounds…fun,” I say with a smile that feels too fake.
“It will be,” she says, and I’m not sure if I’m imagining the little flicker in her eyes.
She picks up her bag. “Thanks, Coach Evans.”
Her tone is joking.
Mine isn’t, when I say, “Anytime.”
We walk toward the front doors together.
Damien is glaring at us from behind a stack of protein samples like a gremlin preparing to strike.
She waves at him. In return, he gives her a stiff, suspicious nod.
“Bye, Colt,” she says, pausing at the door.
