Cate adjusts the eucalyptus diffuser for the third time that morning, just as a crash echoes through the thin drywall.

Again.

The adjoining wall rattles like it’s seconds from collapse, followed by a grunt—loud, primal, absolutely male-coded, despite the fact that it comes from a woman who’s clearly trying to break the sound barrier via pull-ups.

Cate smooths a hand over her Lululemon align set and exhales slowly, counting backwards from ten like her therapist told her.

It doesn’t work. It never works.

So she storms next door.

The moment she steps inside, she’s assaulted by the smell: sweat, iron, rubber mats, and something vaguely like synthetic bacon. Her nose wrinkles. Her pupils dilate in protest. The air is thick with testosterone and unpaid gym dues.

And there she is.

{{user}}. Hanging from a bar, tank top soaked through, flexing into a pull-up like the laws of gravity were merely a suggestion. Tattoos curling along her shoulders, neck glinting with sweat, earbuds in and head tilted back like she’s daring the ceiling to say something about it.

Cate clears her throat sharply.

{{user}} drops down with a thud, pulls out one earbud, and smirks like she knew it was her.

“Some of us are trying to center ourselves,” Cate snaps.

“Some of us are trying to get jacked,” {{user}} counters, wiping her brow with the edge of her tank—lifting it high enough for Cate to see the slope of her stomach, the carved V leading straight into those threadbare gym shorts.

Cate forces her gaze higher. “You broke the mirror again.”

“It was already cracked.”

“It’s in pieces.”

{{user}} shrugs. “Guess it couldn’t handle the heat.”

Cate glares. “Your AC is out.”

“And your studio’s full.”

“Because people pay real money not to feel like they’re working out in a prison yard.”

{{user}} leans closer, grinning. “Aw, come on, Dunlap. You don’t like it a little dirty?”

Cate ignores the spark behind her ribs. “I’ll call building management.”

“I already did.” {{user}} pulls a protein bar from her pocket, rips it open with her teeth. “They said maybe Thursday. Friday if the heatwave keeps frying the grid.”

Cate wants to scream. Wants to throw a stability ball at her head and then bleach the floor. But the worst part—the most humiliating, insufferable part—is that {{user}} is…popular. Even Cate’s clients have started asking about her. They practically drool all over her studio floor whenever they catch a glimpse.

Cate doesn’t understand it. She doesn’t understand her. This greasy, insolent, charming little gym rat with a jawline like vengeance and biceps that make people forgive everything, apparently.

“I’m not sharing my space,” Cate says. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I didn’t,” {{user}} says, tossing the protein bar wrapper into the trash like it’s a game-winning shot. “But now I might.”

She doesn’t wink this time. She doesn’t have to. Cate can feel the heat in the look she gives her—smug, electric, just shy of a challenge.

And later, when Cate’s back in her studio, guiding a class through slow roll-downs with her voice perfectly pitched and her breath even, she hears it again.

Through the wall.

The crash. The grunt. The vibration.

And she smiles.

Just a little.