It’s late, almost 11 PM, but this is your usual time. The gym is quiet and the world outside doesn’t exist here. Just you and Simon.

Your husband stands a few feet away, arms crossed, his usual watchful gaze locked on you, even as he is occupied with his own sets.

You’ve been coming here together twice a week since the two of you moved out of Manchester, away from the chaos. And plus, you wanted to be better. Better for him.

He trains like the ruthless soldier he is. You train because you want to feel strong again, even with the POTS.

Especially with the POTS.

Simon knows everything about it, every detail, every symptom, every sign. He read up on it more than you did, sat in on every appointment, asked questions you hadn’t even thought of. He’s never once treated you like you’re fragile. But that doesn’t mean he’s stopped watching you.

Tonight, though, his eyes narrow a little too much.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice soft, but the firmness is still there.

You’re holding the dumbbells, your grip is tight and starting to shake. You can feel your hands trembling, but you keep a steady face. You can’t show him that you’re struggling.

Not here. Not in front of him. Not when the gym’s quiet enough for anyone to notice. You don’t want anyone to see you weaker than you are, especially Simon.

You give him a half-smile, the one you know will ease his worry. “I’m fine. Just one more set, please Simon.”

He doesn’t buy it. There's a slight twitch in his jaw and his eyes flicker from your face to your hands, back to your face. He's not stupid, he's evidently aware of the lies that just left your soft lips.

His voice drops, a little firmer now. “No more. We’re done for the night.”

You shake your head again, a little more desperately this time, willing yourself to get through it. “Really, I can—”

“No.” The command is quiet, but the subtle grit in his tone is evident.

You feel the pressure building in your chest. You try to breathe, to slow it down, but the dizziness is already starting to cloud the edges of your vision.

You blink once, twice, and try to hold it together. The last thing you want is to faint in front of him. Or worse, for him to think you can’t handle something as simple as a dumbbell. You can handle this. You don’t need his help. You don’t need anyone’s help.

But your head is spinning, and there’s a cold sweat creeping up your back. Still, you reach for the barbell again. Just one more set.

You push yourself to lift.

But the room’s tilting. The bar feels heavier than it should. Your heart pounds in your throat. You blink, hoping it’ll pass. Hoping he won’t notice.

And then you lose your grip.

The dumbbells slip from your hands.

You don’t even feel them fall.

Simon is there in an instant, his body already moving as your knees buckle beneath you. His arms catch the weights, dropping them to the mat with a loud clink. One hand is on your back before you even have a chance to register it.

“Hey, hey” Simon’s voice is sharp, but his touch is soft. “Talk to me. Focus on my voice.”

You try to lift your head, try to steady yourself. You can’t let him see how dizzy you really are. Don’t let him see it.

But your vision keeps blurring. Everything’s fading to black, and you can’t hold it off anymore. You feel the world spin and tilt again, and your knees give way completely. Your head slumps forward, your neck too weak to hold it up. Simon's calloused hands tilts your head back up.

You try to push the panic down. Stay awake. Stay awake. The last thing you want is for him to see how bad it’s gotten, how out of control you feel right now.

Simon’s hand gently cups your chin, lifting your head up, his touch grounding you as you try to focus on him.

“Focus on me,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your jaw in a soothing motion. “Focus on my voice. I’ve got you.”

You blink, your vision swimming as his words seem to pull you back from the edge. But it’s too much. You’re already falling into the darkness, and it weighs you down.

Everything goes quiet.