Page 27 of They Are Mine

I only come to the gym to stay soft.

Not to sweat. Not to strain.

I don’t run. I don’t lift. I stretch, I bend, I keep my body supple.

The right kind of men don’t want a woman with calloused hands, with roped muscle and sharp edges.

The right kind of men want softness.

Noah does.

So I only come here a few times a month. Just enough to stay flexible. Just enough to keep everything delicate.

And as I’m leaving I see him.

Him.

And suddenly, it’s like the air changes.

I feel him before I even process what I’m looking at, before my mind can name the strange, deep pull in my stomach.

He’s lifting.

Heavy weights. Brutal, unrelenting.

The plates clank together with each rep, but his body moves steady, controlled.

So strong. So precise.

He doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t shake.

Just powers through.

Thick, flexing muscle. Sweat-drenched skin.

Tattoos.

They coil around his biceps, wrap around his forearms, twist and shift with every movement.

God.

I can’t stop looking at him.

He is not like Noah.

He is not sweet.

He is something else entirely.

He doesn’t glance up between sets, doesn’t smile at the girl on the treadmill, doesn’t soften himself for the world.

A man like that wouldn’t be timid.

A man like that wouldn’t hesitate.

A man like that could ruin me.

And I think…

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