“It wasn’t funny. Professional. Remember?”
“It was very funny.”
“No it wasn’t,” I insist.
She smiles in a way that could rebuild the entire U.S. power grid.
“Okay,” I say, trying desperately to steer this into safe, boring territory, “time for deadlifts.” Definitely no more talk about France or anything romantic.
She picks up a pair of medium weights and positions herself.
Feet hip-width apart.
Back flat.
Form…honestly pretty good.
But she looks over her shoulder again. “Is this right? Or do I need…adjusting?”
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
“No adjusting,” I lie. “Your form is solid.”
“Are you sure? Because I really like when people?—”
“Elena.”
“Yes, Lamp Man?”
I close my eyes. “Please stop calling me that.”
She laughs—full, unfiltered, delighted—then bends into the first rep.
And I, complete idiot that I am, watch.
Not in a creepy way.
In anI want her to succeedway.
Mostly.
Her form is excellent.
Her strength is impressive.
And her confidence is lethal.
She finishes a set, stands tall, cheeks flushed, and asks, “So? Am I improving?”
My voice barely works.
“It’s a great start. Will be fun to see how much you improve over ten sessions.”
She beams.
And I know that professionally, ethically, and emotionally, I should shut this down.
But I also know…
