Okay, Jackie Taylor was not supposed to be here.

Technically, yeah—she was allowed to be here. But right now? At this exact moment? She really wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this headspace, not watching this unfold like some kind of slow-motion car crash of her own making.

She was supposed to be at soccer practice. But after pulling her ankle last week, Coach Martinez had sentenced her to the gym for a week of stretching, upper-body work, balance drills—and “rest,” though Jackie was doing a terrible job at that part.

You were always there. That part wasn’t new. You trained like you lived in the weight room, like the place owed you rent. You’d helped her stretch her ankle the other day—gentle, focused, quiet in a way that felt more intimate than it should have.

But today? Today was different.

She hadn’t expected to walk in and see you like that.

You were already mid-set, rolling your quads, sweat slick on your skin, T-shirt clinging to your back in places she shouldn’t have been looking. Shorts hitched up higher than usual, revealing strong thighs, muscles twitching under your skin as you leaned into the roller. Your hands were behind your neck, head down, lips parted, soft groans escaping you—half pain, half release—and she nearly dropped her water bottle.

Because those sounds? Those weren’t neutral. Those weren’t innocent. Those were dangerous.

The low groans. The sharp hisses. And God—those whimpers.

Fuck the whimpers.

Jackie didn’t know she was into whimpers until right now, standing like an idiot in the doorway, staring at you like a deer in headlights as heat curled low in her stomach and shame clawed at her ribs. Because she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about you like that. Not with a boyfriend. Not when that boyfriend hated your guts. Not when her mom could barely say your name without wrinkling her nose.

But her boyfriend, Jeff, was an asshole. Let’s be real. He hated you for no good reason beyond the fact that you were trans. That was it. Not because you were rude (you weren’t), or weird (you weren’t), or weak (you definitely weren’t).

You were kind. Focused. Quiet. Strong in the ways Jeff pretended to be.

And the more she noticed that, the more uncomfortable it made everything else feel.

Because Jeff mocked your voice and your chest and your pronouns while you helped her with her balance drills and asked if she’d eaten that day.

Jeff talked like he owned masculinity. But you lived in it—quietly, steadily, without apology.

And today, as Jackie watched the muscles in your arms shift and flex, saw the trail of hair below your navel peek out every time your shirt rode up, heard the breathless noises falling from your mouth—

She was done for.

Because later that night—curled up on Jeff’s bed, lips on hers, his hands where they were supposed to be—you were the one she was thinking about.

Your groans. Your whimpers. Your fucking sweat-slicked skin.

Every time she closed her eyes, it wasn’t Jeff’s mouth she imagined. It was yours.

She let him kiss her neck, let him run his hands down her back, and all she could think about was you, flushed and breathless, letting out those noises that made her knees weak.

And when Jeff asked what was wrong—why she was so quiet, why she wasn’t into it tonight—she just shook her head and mumbled something about practice and being tired.

But in truth?

Jackie Taylor was tired of lying. Of pretending not to notice the way you looked at her sometimes. Of pretending not to feel things when you helped her stretch or asked if her ankle was getting better.

Tired of pretending her chest didn’t throb when you smiled at her like she was something soft and human.

Later on she was in the bathroom sat against the door playing with her necklace as she looked at your name on her phone before inhaling and tapping on it.

It rang, once, twice before you picked up.

“Hey” she whispered breathlessly over the phone.