The garage reeked of metal and sweat, the kind of heat that clung to the walls and soaked into your lungs. The clatter of weights echoed like thunder, steady and punishing. You didn’t need to see him to know he was in there—you could feel it, like a storm humming just beneath the concrete.

He was shirtless, drenched. Every movement was sharp, exact—reps executed with brutal precision, as if sheer force could burn away the thoughts that wouldn’t stop circling his mind. Veins bulged against his forearms. His chest heaved with the rhythm of someone pushing past the point of exhaustion, not for strength, but for silence.

You stepped in quietly, careful not to startle him. The barbell clanged as he let it fall, sweat flicking off his skin as he adjusted his stance for another round.

“John,” you said softly, the word barely cutting through the air. “You alright?”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t stop.

Muscles flexed, back taut, jaw clenched. Another set. Another breath he didn’t need. Another rep like he was fighting ghosts only he could see.

“Price—”

“I said I’m fine!”

The snap came fast. Too fast. Like a whip through air.

He dropped the weight hard this time—metal on metal, the sound ringing out like a warning. He turned, chest rising and falling, eyes burning. And for a second, you weren’t looking at the man you knew—you were staring into the eyes of someone barely holding it together.

“You think I need someone askin’ me if I’m alright every time I breathe heavy?” he growled, voice rough and cracked at the edges. “I’ve got six plates of shite stacked on my back and not enough fuckin’ hours in the day to deal with it. Don’t need you hoverin’ like I’m about to fall apart.”

Silence.

You didn’t move. He noticed.

His breath hitched. The guilt was already crawling into his expression, just beneath the fury, tangled up in the ache he refused to name. But he didn’t take it back. He didn’t know how.

Not yet.