Watched freedom is still a cage.
Bronx left first thing this morning wearing a tailored suit and a cologne that made my pulse race. He didn’t touch me before he went. Didn’t try to kiss me. Didn’t even say anything to annoy me.
Just a quiet, “See you later, wife.”
And somehow that restraint rattled me more than his presence ever did.
I’m wearing sweats over my gym gear and my hair scraped back. The version of me I’m used to that throws punches instead of drinking champagne at charity events.
When I swipe my access card and step into the gym, I sigh heavily, more out of appreciation for the setup.
It’s clean and private with no one else around. High-end equipment dots the space, and wall mirrors reflect the soft lighting.
I need this time to kick the shit out of the bags and burn off the tension.
Because last night, I was far too close to Bronx… so close I almost kissed him.
Me… Kissing him.
My jaw tightens as I wrap my hands. The tape pulls snug around my knuckles, grounding me.
I shouldn’t almost kiss that man. But the way he looked at me and pointed out how happy I looked… the way he noticed it… That wasn’t a guy with a strategy. It was a husband noticing the insignificant details.
I square up to the heavy bag and drive my fist into it hard enough to make the chains rattle.
Pain is simple, whereas my attraction to Bronx isn’t.
Another punch comes harder.
As the days have passed, I’m finding it harder to pull away from him. Harder to resist the temptation of his lips, and the worst part is that I’ve forgotten all about Damien.
Like the moments we shared didn’t matter and whatever we had was a flicker compared to the fire burning in my gut now.
I slam my fist into the bag again, breath coming faster.
If I don’t beat this out of my system now, I might lose control when I need to keep myself in check.
The bag swings once I’m done with it. I unwrap my hands and move to the free weights, loading more than I should onto the bar.
If I’m going to distract myself, I’ll do it properly.
The metal bites into my palms as I bench press, arms trembling on the last rep.
Sweat slides down my temple and disappears into my hairline. My shoulders shake and I grit my teeth, offering one final, shaky push.
After a brutal circuit, I cross to the pull-up bar, jump, and grip it with both hands, letting my body hang, muscles elongate and stretch.
Just as I engage to pull myself up, another body moves into my space.
Bronx jumps up and grips the bar on either side of my hands, his face before mine.
“I’m trying to work out, Bronx,” I say, already feeling my pulse change.
He grins. “Me too.”
He’s in fitted sportswear, a black top clinging to his chest, the armholes loose and wide, revealing his inked muscles.
“Why are youback so soon?” I ask.
