[ Maya's Pov]
The gym at dusk felt different.
Flatter, quieter. The music still pulsed from the ceiling panels, but fewer bodies moved through the space now. Less noise. Less show.
Maya liked it this way.
No crowds. No noise. Just motion. Sweat. Thought.
She tied her hair back tighter, fingers quick and practiced. Neon pink bands contrasted hard against the gold of her hair. The black compression shirt hugged her tightly, and her legs ached from the last set—but it was the kind of ache that made her feel good about her body.
Not everyone did these days.
She dropped into another set of lunges. Slower now. Her knee clicked softly with each drop. "Shit," she whispered.
Her form had almost collapsed.
Sometimes she forgot people were watching.
Later, at the smoothie bar, she sat alone with her feet kicked up on the second stool. Her drink was some terrible fruit protein blend with spirulina—tasted like pond and regret.
She kept checking her phone.
No texts.
No new likes.
No updates from Jude.
Her last message to Ethan—the gym guy—still read "Delivered."
No response.
That figured.
He was... quiet. Not standoffish, but weirdly unreachable. The kind of guy who smiled with one corner of his mouth like he didn't remember how to do it right.
He made bad jokes.
The kind you only noticed were actually funny a few seconds after you'd already laughed.
Maya hated that.
Loved it too.
"Why am I even thinking about you?" she muttered into her cup.
She stirred it.
Her hand brushed her shoulder—right where he'd accidentally touched her arm last week. Or maybe where she touched his.
She couldn't remember who initiated it anymore.
Didn't matter.
Jude's message finally came through:
"He's in. Saturday. Casual. Don't scare him."
P.S. You know him. I think. 🫣
Maya squinted.
"???" she typed back.
"Gym guy. always wearing a hoodie. Soft voice."
She stared at the text.
Gym guy.
No. Way.
Her heart kicked harder than it should've.
She thought back to the way his eyes flinched when she teased him. Not like he was offended—like he didn't know how to process kindness without flinching.
Some people were like that.
Most guys flinched when they were about to be hurt.
He flinched when he wanted to trust someone.
She looked down at her drink.
Smiled faintly.
"Saturday huh."
She stayed at the smoothie bar too long.
She pulled her phone back up.
The message was still there:
"Gym guy. Black hoodie. Soft voice. Hazel eyes."
Her thumb hovered over the reply box.
"How do you know it's him?"
Then she deleted it.
Then typed it again.
Then deleted it again.
Because deep down, she already knew Jude was right.
They'd crossed paths more than once. She'd noticed him early—half because he looked like he hadn't slept in a year, half because he moved like he didn't think anyone had a reason to watch him.
People like that were the ones who usually needed watching.
She'd given him tips. Nothing weird. Just a nudge here, a form correction there. He always listened like he didn't trust his own body to obey until someone else told it what to do.
And he made that dumb joke.
That took her forever to understand.
She didn't laugh right away.
It hit her 4 seconds later, and then she did.
She finally stood.
Threw the half-drink away.
On the walk home, her thoughts kept swinging between extremes—what if he didn't remember her at all? What if he remembered her too much? What if this wasn't the same guy? What if he looked right at her and smiled and said something like, "Oh, hey. You still work out here?"
Maya hated not knowing where she stood with people.
But she especially hated not knowing where people stood with her.
At home, she dumped her bag by the door, peeled off her hoodie, and kicked her shoes into a corner.
She lived alone.
No pets. No roommates. Just a compact flat near the midline towers. Too much LED, not enough window.
She liked it that way.
Less space meant less pretending.
The moment she sat down, her phone buzzed.
Jude again.
"He's nervous. Be kind. You're good at that when you're not terrifying."
Maya rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
She typed back:
"No promises. Sometimes I look intimidating when I'm nervous."
Then:
"What's he like when he's not dead-eyed and gym-shy?"
Jude didn't reply for a while.
Then:
"Worse. But honest. Just... don't expect a clean slate."
That last part stuck with her.
Maya got up and walked to her tiny bedroom.
She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall across from her. No decor. No posters. Just the faint glow of the streetlights outside casting long shadows against plain white paint.
She leaned back and closed her eyes.
Tried to picture his face.
She could.
Easily.
Dark hair. Tired eyes. A mouth that looked like it used to smile a lot and then forgot how.
But when she tried to picture his voice—not just the jokes, not the awkward tone—she couldn't picture it clearly.
"Don't get weird," she whispered.
She spent the next hour prepping.
Clothes were the easy part—something casual enough to say this isn't a date but still intentional enough to say you'll wish it was. She picked a cropped zip-up jacket and low-rise jeans, stacked rings on one hand, and touched up her lip gloss even though she didn't plan to reapply it later.
And then she sat.
Waiting.
Thirty minutes out from the meeting, she considered texting Jude again. Cancel? Reschedule? It wouldn't be hard. Just one excuse, one tired lie.
But she didn't.
Because part of her—maybe the worst part—was already hoping it would hurt a little.
Not enough to damage.
Just enough to feel.
She stepped out into the night air.
The walk to the café was short. Neutral territory. Window seating, light acoustic playlist on loop, enough white noise to cover pauses in conversation. Jude had picked the place, of course. Maya appreciated that.
As she neared the building, she caught her reflection in the glass door. Hair perfect. Emerald eyes sharp. Smile ready.
She looked like she always did—unbothered.
Unreachable.
Safe.
So why did her chest feel so damn tight?
She pushed the door open.
No one there yet.
Just the soft scent of roasted coffee and cinnamon. Her boots clicked against the tile. She picked a table in the corner—two chairs, no view—and sat down, one leg crossed over the other.
She stared at the door.
Each time it opened, her heart jumped.
Wrong person.
Then again.
Still wrong.
Then—him.
Jacket. Quiet eyes. Shoulders like he hadn't figured out how to stand up straight since winter.
He paused in the doorway.
Didn't see her yet.
She didn't call out.
Didn't wave.
Just watched.
Like a scene she'd dreamed too many times, trying to decide whether to let it play out—or walk away before it started.