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I beam at him. He ignores me and moves me to another exercise.

Then another.

And somewhere along the way, something strange happens.

I stop joking. Well, mostly.

Roman explains how to position my shoulders, avoid locking my elbows, and keep my knees aligned.

And I listen.

He knows what he's doing. Which shouldn’t be surprising. Everything about Roman seems controlled. Measured. Intentional.

Even when he's irritated with me, there's something steady underneath it.

I like watching him explain things.

The way he notices everything.

The way he corrects me before I can hurt myself.

The way he somehow makes five-pound dumbbells feel like an intimate experience.

“This one.” He gestures toward another machine.

I stare at it. “No.”

His brows raise.

“I've decided I'm done.”

“You said you wanted to work out.”

“I've reconsidered.”

“You've been here thirty minutes.”

“Exactly. That's practically an athletic event.”

Roman snorts.

I grin. “Laughter-adjacent.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I reach for my water bottle. Then remember I don't have one. I came in here with only an iced coffee.

Roman sees me looking around and automatically holds out his bottle.

I blink.

He raises it slightly.

“For me?”

“No. For the invisible person standing beside you.”

I take it.