For seven endless days, she vanished and appeared. No texts, no calls. She skipped workouts without a word, her absence wrapped in silence and dread.
It wasn't anger that kept her away—it was fear.
Fear that one look from him would rip through her defenses, undo every ounce of self-control she had clung to.
She busied herself with anything to escape the gnawing ache inside—long walks, meaningless conversations, scrolling endlessly through her phone.
At night, his face haunted her dreams, the memory of his steady gaze and the phantom warmth of his nearness creeping under her skin. She hated herself for wanting him. Hated that her body ached for someone who could never truly be hers.
But restraint is fragile when desire burns in silence. On the eighth day, her feet carried her to the fitness center like a prisoner drawn to the site of her execution. She told herself she was only there to work out, that he wouldn't even notice her.
She was wrong.
He was there. Waiting.
The moment she stepped inside, his eyes found hers. It wasn't surprise that flickered there, but something heavier.
He didn't ask why she stayed away. He just looked at her. That look was enough to strip her bare. Carrying a silent anger. Because the moment his eyes found hers, he realised what was the emptiness gwaning him away.
She turned away quickly, avoiding his gaze, focusing on her warmup. Her heart pounded too loud, her breaths too shallow. She forced her movements to be mechanical, clinical, as if the rigid rhythm could quiet the storm inside her.
But his presence was magnetic, pulling at her. She felt him near before she even saw him move. A shadow fell behind her; his hand came lightly to her waist to adjust her posture. The touch was innocent—on the surface. But her body trembled violently, heat coiling low in her belly.
She stepped away, murmuring, "I'm fine. I got it." Her voice betrayed her; it shook like a confession.
He didn't reply. Didn't apologize. His eyes darkened—still calm, still controlled, but something flickered there. Something dangerous. He didn't touch her again, not right then. But she could feel it: his restraint, as thin and taut as hers.
She tried to go on, finishing her workout in silence, but her body had already surrendered. Each stolen glance sent sparks down her spine. Her pulse fluttered under her skin.
She hated herself for it. Hated how weak she felt.
"What's wrong with me? He isn't mine. He belongs to someone else. I can't be the very reason that shattered my own life. I can't be that pathetic."
"Get a hold on yourself, girl. You're stronger that this. You have braved the storms far more than this", she reminded herself and took a deep breath.
When she finally sat to catch her breath, he crossed the room and came behind her. He reached for her wrist to adjust her grip on the bar, fingers grazing lightly. The warmth of his skin burned her like fire. He adjusted her posture, his hands on her waist, then her spine to hip. That tracing awakened something in her. Her core clenched alongside her heart.
"Don't," she whispered, barely audible. She didn't even know what she meant.
"Don't touch me? Don't look at me like that? Don't make me lose myself?"
He froze for only a heartbeat, eyes locked on hers. And then… he pulled away. He held her gaze steadily, silently, and that was the moment her last bit of resolve shattered.
A week of restraint crumbled like ash.
She tasted guilt and longing in that moment. Her mind screamed that it was wrong, that this would destroy her, but her body drowned it out with a desperate cry of its own.
Tears stung her eyes, unbidden. She didn't even know if it was pain or relief that made her shake. Her mind whispered his name like it was sacred, but she pulled back, breathless and shaking.
"I shouldn't," she managed, her voice raw. "I can't…"
She didn't wait for anything. Couldn't. She grabbed her towel and ran out for a breather, the echo of his touch burning on her skin, her body humming with treacherous delight.
That night, alone in the dark, she curled up and wept—not because she regretted meeting him, but because she knew the truth: her body had betrayed her. Her heart wasn't far behind.
And the spark she had tried to smother? It was now a wildfire.
When she bolted out for air, he noticed it.
The flush in her cheeks, the tremor in her breath, the way her lashes clung together with a mist she didn't want him to see. It bit at him, that image, lodged under his skin. Curiosity tugged at him, mingled with a strange alarm.
He began testing the edges of her silence, brushing past her lightly, letting his hand linger a heartbeat longer on her arm, appearing behind her without a sound just to see her startled gasp and wide, panicked eyes.
And every time, the sight struck him like a revelation: that glow on her skin, the bashful heat rising under it, the mist in her eyes that made her look almost otherworldly. She was ethereal in her unrest, and he burned to know why.