Zack Lee didn’t get distracted.

His focus was like a locked-in jab—clean, precise, untouchable. Until she crashed into his life with the grace of a dropped dumbbell.

She entered the classroom late, the door slamming behind her like an aftershock. Popsicle in hand, hair messy, shirt slightly untucked. She muttered under her breath, not to anyone in particular. “Stupid weather. Feels like the sun wants to fight me.”

Zack looked up.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room. People stared. She didn’t care. She just walked past everyone, sat down in the back row, and slouched like the whole day had personally offended her. She looked like she didn’t belong there—and didn’t care that she didn’t.

Zack tried to look away. Failed. He wasn't even sure why. She wasn’t his type. He didn’t even have a type. He had a routine. But something about her felt... untrained. Raw. Like a stray dog with good instincts.

The next day, she was in the gym.

Not watching from the wall like the others. Not being polite. No. She was sitting on his gym bag. Eating chips. One leg crossed like she was waiting for a train.

Zack stopped dead in his tracks. “You’re sitting on my stuff.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even stand. Just gave him that look—the kind that said and?

His eyes narrowed. “Move.”

She shrugged. “You left it empty.”

Zack clenched his jaw. His gloves were still strapped tight from warm-up, but he was suddenly way too aware of his breathing. Too sharp. Too fast.

She stood up eventually, tossing the empty chip bag into the trash without a second glance. As if it was nothing. As if he was nothing.

But the next day, there was a note. Left on his bag.

Sloppy handwriting. A badly drawn cartoon of a punching glove saying “chill, gym rat.”

He stared at it for a long time.

Then, silently, folded it up and slid it into the back of his locker.

Zack didn’t get distracted. But somehow, now… he was.