Tears sting my eyes.
“I love you.” My voice wobbles with joy.
She smiles. “Love you more.”
We blow each other kisses before she ends the call, her image freezing for a beat before the screen goes dark.
And I sit there, heart thudding and soul full.
Then I get up and go find my man.
I move on instinct. It’s a floaty rush that only comes when joy meets awe—when someone you love does something behind your back and it makes you love them more.
I hear the low thump of music and the rhythmic clink of metal—weights being lifted, dropped, lifted again.
I push the gym door open, and there he is.
Alex is flat on his back beneath the bar, knees bent, feet planted, lifting with that slow, controlled precision that makes every muscle in his arms and chest stand out. The barbell glints with weight plates on either end, heavy enough to buckle a lesser man. But not him.
His bare chest is slick with sweat, glistening under the overhead lights, the ridges of his abs rising and falling with each breath. His jaw clenches, eyes locked on the ceiling—focused, grounded, in control. Beautiful in that brutal, understated way he doesn’t even try to be.
I stand there for a moment, watching him in silence.
God. This man.
He gave Violet a new chapter. He gave Elias a shot at forever. And he gave me something I’ve been missing. My best friend. A sister, not by blood. An anchor.
Without asking for anything in return.
My throat thickens again.
“Put the weights down.”
He freezes mid-rep, glancing toward me. The second he sees my face, he racks the bar in one swift motion and sits up fast, swiping sweat off his brow.
“What’s wrong, babe?” His voice is alert, immediate. Protective.
I cross the floor toward him. Slow. Barefoot. Steady.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, stepping between his knees. “Everything’s so right.”
I climb into his lap without warning, straddling him. My hands press to his sweat-slicked shoulders. My dress slides up my thighs as I settle against him, heartbeat pounding against his chest.
His hands grip my hips, strong and warm.
“Okay…” he says, brow cocking, lips curving. “Not that I’m complaining, but what do I owe this moment to?”
I kiss him once—soft and sure—then lean back far enough to look into his face.
“I talked to Violet.”
And there it is—that flicker. That subtle pull at the corner of his mouth. He knows what’s coming but still doesn’t tell me what he’s done.
“You didn’t tell me you called Gabby.”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t about me.”
I blink, breath catching.
