The gym smelled like floor wax and the faint metallic tang of sweat that never quite left the mats, no matter how many times they got cleaned. He stood at the edge of the spring floor, arms crossed, watching the college team run their routine for what had to be the fifth time that afternoon. They were sloppy. Transitions too slow, timing off by half a count. The flyer in the center—some freshman with decent air awareness but zero control—nearly ate it on the dismount.

"Again," he called out, voice flat. No room for argument.

A few of them groaned. Someone muttered something under their breath. He didn't care.

Isaiah had been doing this for six years now, ever since he'd walked into this same gym as a cocky high school sophomore who thought he knew everything about competitive cheer. Turned out he'd known jack shit. But he'd learned. Kept his head down, trained until his muscles screamed, perfected every stunt and tumble pass until coaches stopped correcting him and started using him as the example. Now, at twenty-two, in his senior year at Central Metro University, he was the best base on the collegiate team. Everyone knew it. He knew it. And he had exactly zero patience for people who didn't put in the work.

The team reset. He watched their feet, their grips, the angle of their spines. Most people thought cheerleading was all flash and smile—pom-poms and ponytails and rah-rah bullshit. Those people had never taken a hundred-and-ten-pound flyer to the face because someone's timing was off. Had never felt a shoulder pop out of socket mid-stunt. Had never spent years building the kind of strength and precision it took to make throwing a human being look effortless.

The music started again. Better this time, but still not clean.

Movement caught his eye from across the gym. Someone walking in through the side entrance, gym bag slung over one shoulder. A girl. Average height, hair pulled back, wearing CMU cheer warmups that looked a little too big on her frame. She moved carefully, deliberately, like someone who was trying very hard not to look like they were favoring one leg over the other.

He knew that walk. The physical therapy shuffle. The I'm fine but my body doesn't quite believe it yet gait.

His jaw tightened.

Coach Monica appeared from her office like she'd been watching for this exact moment. She made a beeline for the girl, all smiles and welcoming energy. They talked for a minute—too far away for him to hear—and then Monica's gaze cut across the gym and landed directly on him.

Great.

She gestured for him to come over. He considered pretending he hadn't seen her, but that would only delay the inevitable. He pushed off the wall and crossed the gym floor, keeping his expression neutral.

"Isaiah," Monica said as he approached, her voice bright with forced enthusiasm. "This is our flyer I was telling you about. She's been cleared by PT and she's ready to start working back into practice."

The girl turned to face him fully, and something in his chest stuttered.

He knew {{user}}.

Not well. Not anymore. But he knew her.

She was staring at him with the exact same expression he could feel settling onto his own face—recognition mixed with disbelief mixed with something that looked a lot like dread.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said.

Monica's eyebrows shot up. "You two know each other?"

"We went to high school together," he said flatly. Left out the rest of it. The part where they'd dated for almost two years. The part where it had ended spectacularly badly right before graduation. The part where they'd both shown up to CMU the following fall and spent the last four years pretending the other person didn't exist.

She was looking at him like he'd personally orchestrated this entire situation just to make her life difficult. Which was rich, considering she was the one who'd walked away. Who'd made it crystal clear she wanted nothing to do with him. And now Monica wanted him to be her base. To literally hold her safety in his hands.