Page 74 of This Life of Mine

He’s already on the mat, sweatpants hanging on his hips, T-shirt clinging to every muscle on his body. He’s doing push-ups. Controlled, like every movement has been practiced a thousand times. His back muscles flex through his shirt with each rep, shoulders broad and defined.

I watch longer than I should.

There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves. No wasted motion, no showboating. Just strength, contained and deliberate.

He finishes a set and rises to his feet. That’s when he notices me. His gaze skims over me—quick, respectful, but not blind—before he gives a single nod.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, hoping it sounds steadier than I feel. “About to warm up.”

“Try and take it easy tonight,” he says. “Listen to your body.”

I smile. “I always do.”

I move toward my usual area, slipping my headphones over my ears. But I don’t turn the music on right away.

Normally, I disappear into my own world here. Music loud. Focus narrow. Everyone else fades into background noise. The gym is my sanctuary because it’s where I don’t have to notice anyone.

But tonight, Alex is impossible to miss.

I catch him in the mirror as I stretch. See the way he transitions from one movement to the next without breaking stride.

I’m aware of him in a way that feels oddly grounding—like sharing the same space means something different now that I know he’s herewithme.

He’s not watching me or looming over me. He’s just…present. And it throws me out of balance.

I force myself to turn the music on,Swim by Chase Atlantic, to focus on my own workout. But even then, I’m aware of him nearby. His quiet intensity, the steady cadence of his breathing, the way the room seems to shrink.

The gym is typically my personal escape, but not today. It’s a shared space. And that changes everything.

Chapter twenty-three

Alex

Inotice her the moment she steps back onto the gym floor.

It’s hard not to. Lina exists with a conviction that pulls attention whether she asks for it or not.

Her hair is pulled high into a ponytail, thick and dark, swinging lightly as she walks. Tight black leggings cling to her legs, outlining strength more than softness—muscle earned. Her oversized T-shirt hangs loose in front, doing a terrible job at hiding her very ample chest, but I catch how it’s tucked into her sports bra in the back, revealing the curve of her waist and her amazing ass.

She claims a quiet corner of the mat space. First, rolling her shoulders back, grounding herself.

She starts slow.

Neck rolls. One direction, then the other. She closes her eyes as she stretches, as if she’s checking in with her body before asking anything of it. Her arms lift overhead, fingers interlacing, torso lengthening as she reaches upward, ribs expanding with a deep inhale. Fluid. Deliberate.

That’s the moment I notice it.

The shirt shifts enough as she reaches—and there, along the smooth line of her lower spine, are faint bruises. Blue at the edges. One scrape peeking through as she twists at the top of her hip bone, thin and angry, telling a story I already understand.

My jaw tightens.

She folds forward next, hinging at the hips, letting her spine decompress one vertebra at a time. The mirror catches more than I want it to—scrapes on her elbows, faint discoloration along her forearm where skin met pavement. Where she hit the ground trying to get away.

My hands curl at my sides.

I avert my eyes. Then don’t.