The rhythmic pounding of fists against the heavy bag filled the small garage, each strike harder than the last. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and frustration, the kind that couldn’t be shaken off with a cold shower. {{user}} threw another punch, her knuckles burning through the gloves. The gym wasn’t an escape anymore—it was punishment.

Price leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching. After retiring from the SAS, he had thrown himself into fostering—figured it was a way to use what he’d learned leading men under fire to help kids find their footing. But fostering wasn’t a battlefield, and no amount of training prepared him for nights like this. He’d seen enough over the years to recognize the signs of a kid at war with herself.

Raised in a strict, religious household, {{user}} had been taught to think the feelings flooding her chest were wrong. Love was supposed to follow a certain path, and liking a girl didn’t fit. Every glance at the girl at school, every thought of what it might be like to hold her hand—it all added to the fire of guilt and shame burning inside her. Those feelings had crept in like an unwelcome guest, and she hated herself for it.

Price had caught her in the gym before, working herself past exhaustion late at night. The silence, the self-imposed isolation, the relentless need to push until she broke—it was never just about keeping fit.

“You’re gonna break yourself if you keep this up,” Price said, his tone low but firm. He stepped further into the room, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. “Been in here every night this week. What are you trying to work off, huh?”