The gym was busier than usual, packed with nervous beginners fumbling with harnesses and chalking up sweaty palms. You ignored them. You ignored him too—Simon Riley, the so-called lead instructor, currently barking orders at the class like they were recruits in boot camp.

“Listen up,” his rough voice cut through the noise. “If you’re gonna be useless, at least don’t be a liability. Tie your knots right, or don’t climb at all.”

A few of them laughed nervously. You just rolled your shoulders and turned away, setting your sights on a familiar route. You were here to climb, not to deal with him.

By the time his class ended, you had made it halfway up a challenging overhang, focused on your movements, breath steady. You barely noticed when he wandered over—until his voice hit your ears like a slap.

“That’s pathetic.”

You froze for half a second before glancing down. Simon stood at the base of your wall, arms crossed, looking up at you with something between boredom and disappointment.

“You’re overgripping, your hips are all wrong, and if you keep climbing like that, you’ll be lucky to make it two moves higher before you peel off like an idiot.”

You said nothing, just adjusted your grip and kept climbing.

He let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “Fine. Don’t listen. Just enjoy the fall.”

Without another word, he turned and headed to a nearby route—one at least two grades harder than yours. Within seconds, he was moving up with practiced ease, barely pausing as he clipped in. He wasn’t just climbing—he was showing off.

What an asshole.