The air smells like metal, sweat, and rubber mats. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a pale haze across the floor. It’s too quiet for this time of day—too tense. But that’s what you needed. Quiet. Distance.

Across from you, James stands on the mat, gloves on, brow furrowed, like he’s waiting for you to snap out of something.

You haven’t said much since you got here.

You haven’t said much to him all day.

He shifts his stance, reading your body like he’s preparing for a hit—but none of yours have landed right. None of them have had real weight behind them.

“That was wide,” he says softly after your last jab. “You’re off today.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

Your voice is sharp, short, a knee-jerk reflex meant to end the conversation before it starts.

James doesn’t move. Doesn’t call you out. But you feel the silence stretch between you, taut like pulled thread.

He steps in gently, tapping the edge of your pad to correct your stance, his eyes searching your face.

“Let’s try again, yeah?”

You nod, tight. Eyes forward.

“Sure.”

You step back. Just a little.

But he notices.

His hand lingers midair where yours used to be. His brows pull together, and his mouth opens like he’s about to say something—but stops.

You saw the message this morning.

Grainy surveillance photos of Sharon too close to him. Her hand on his chest. Her mouth near his neck.

A smug smile on her lips.

You don’t believe it.

But it still hit like a blade to the ribs.

Now she’s across the room. Pretending to scroll through her phone. But her eyes are on you.

She sees the space between you and James—and she smiles like she’s already won.

“You’ve barely looked at me all day, doll,” James says.

“Been busy,” you say simply.

It’s a lie. He knows it. You know it. But your tone doesn’t invite a follow-up.

Still, James watches you like he’s trying to solve an equation that keeps changing in front of him.

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

Another lie.

Short. Firm. Hurting you more than it’s helping.

He steps closer again—slowly, like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“You look at me like I already broke something. Like I already lost you.”

Your stomach twists. You blink down at your gloves, heart thudding in your throat.

“You didn’t,” you say, almost too fast. “You’re just… imagining things.”

It’s not convincing. Not even a little.

He watches you for another beat. That quiet storm in his eyes gathering into something colder.

“What aren’t you telling me?”