“Want to try the sixty-pound dumbbells today for deadlifts?” he asks.
“Who are you?” I laugh. “And what kind of superhero do you think I am?”
“The kind who keeps surprising herself,” he says softly.
My stomach flips, and I avoid eye contact.
Meanwhile, I buy another ten-pack on the app before I can talk myself out of it.
Then the next day, I buy another, for thirty sessions total.
When the confirmation email hits my inbox, I stare at it for a long time.
Ten weeks ago, I walked into his gym feeling older.
A little invisible, just a touch unsexy, and definitely uncertain.
But now?
Now I feel like someone who can walk into a room and choose—not chase.
I catch myself in the window as I get ready to leave my office.
I’m not perfect. I’m not twenty-five.
I’m not effortlessly carefree, but I’m…powerful.
I like what I see. My old confidence is definitely coming back to me.
I’m packing up my things, still warm from the workout, still buzzing from the ten-week glow I can’t fully deny.
I reach for my coat.
Colt clears his throat behind me.
“Hey—Elena?”
I look up.
He’s closer than I realized.
Arms crossed, hair a little mussed, that soft winter light from the high windows catching on his jaw.
“Yeah?” I say.
He hesitates. “Can I say something without you taking it the wrong way?”
“Of course.”
And then, quietly, I hear his voice. “You look really good. I’m extremely impressed by how much work you’ve been putting in.”
My breath stutters.
He freezes instantly, like his own words shocked him. “I mean—professionally.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I mean…not professionally. Or—yes professionally but also not—shit.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I just mean your progress. Physically. Strength-wise. In your lifts. God.”
