Chapter 26

  I shaved... For This?

  I shift my weight, shooting her a glance. Alicia’s sprawled out, legs stretched in that effortless-but-practiced way, like every move is designed to be seen. She catches my eye and smiles—not the friendly kind. No, this one’s sharp, assessing, like she’s figuring out how far she can push.

  "You're so toned," she muses, her voice syrupy, slow. "How do you stay in shape with all your... work?"

  My jaw tightens. That question. Again. I exhale through my nose, staring at the wall like it might offer an escape. It’s always the same. Always about the body. The surface.

  Work. Yeah, let’s call it that.

  I shake off the irritation. I’ve just spent an hour contorting into awkward poses in a room full of strangers, dodging Alicia’s not-so-subtle glances. She has this way of making me feel like a specimen under a microscope, and it’s getting old. I’d rather talk about literally anything else—something real.

  “I’ve been streaming a lot,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Music, cinematography. Starting a studio with a friend. Big project. Keeps me busy.”

  I glance at her, hoping she’ll pick up on the shift. She doesn’t. Her smile curves, teasing, but her gaze drifts downward—arms, shoulders, back. She didn’t hear me.

  “Hmm.” She drags out the sound just long enough to grind my nerves. “That’s cute. But seriously, how do you stay so toned with all that ‘work’ you’re doing?”

  My muscles go rigid. Cute? This isn’t cute. I’m giving her something real, and she’s still stuck on aesthetics. I hold my stretch longer than necessary, letting the burn distract me from the rising frustration.

  I drop my arms, movements stiff, and look at her, hoping—stupidly—this time she’ll get it. “I’ve spent hours learning to capture light, tell stories through visuals,” I say, my voice firm. “Music’s been my thing forever. It’s what I care about.”

  Alicia tilts her head, feigning curiosity. “But how do you stay so toned with all those ‘hours’ of work?” she repeats, as if I’m the one missing something.

  It’s a slap—subtle but stinging. A reminder that none of it matters to her. Not the music. Not the projects. Just the body. The packaging.

  I swallow hard, staring at the floor. The space between us feels massive, yet suffocating. This is a game to her. And I’m done playing.

  “Maybe it’s genetics,” I say, the words rolling out like a concession. “Or maybe I just like working out. Clears my head.”

  She laughs, light and empty, like I’ve just confirmed everything she assumed. “Well, it shows,” she says, eyes still fixed on me. “But don’t you ever get stressed with all that?”

  My teeth clench. It’s a trap, and I know it. I meet her gaze, searching for something—anything—but all I see is surface-level interest, shallow and unchanging.

  “Everyone’s got their ways,” I mutter, forcing a smile. It’s all I’ve got left.

  Alicia stretches further, still watching, her attention pressing down, heavy and invasive. It’s not admiration—it’s scrutiny. And I hate how small it makes me feel.

  I push myself to my feet, movements stiff. “That’s enough for me,” I say, voice flat.

  She watches, smug, like she’s won some unspoken game. But not this time. I grab my water bottle and head for the door, my footsteps echoing in the quiet. Her gaze burns into my back, but I don’t look back.

  Not today.

  I’m halfway to the door when it hits me.

  My gym bag...

  My hoodie...

  Damn it...

  I stop with my hand on the handle, mentally kicking myself. Turning back now means giving her another chance to mess with me, and I know Alicia won’t waste it.

  I hear her before I see her. The soft shuffle of sneakers against hardwood, the almost-too-slow rhythm of her steps. Then, a small breath—like she’s savoring the moment. Yeah, she knows exactly what she’s doing.

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  "You forgot your stuff, Carlos," she calls, and there it is—that teasing lilt, just smug enough to make my eye twitch.

  I exhale hard, rubbing the back of my neck. Of course, I forgot it. I pivot, heading toward the yoga section, and sure enough, she’s right behind me, a presence that somehow fills the space like she owns it.

  "Did I?" I glance at her sideways, my voice coming out drier than I intended. "Appreciate the reminder."

  She’s too close now. Close enough that the scent of her body—sweet and sour, with a hint of jasmine—wraps around me before I can stop it. I keep my focus ahead, zeroing in on the bench where my bag sits. Not on the way her yoga pants fit just a little too well. Not on the curve of her collarbone or the fact that her tank top is tight enough to show every small shift in muscle.

  She knows I noticed.

  And she smiles.

  Her gaze drops to my water bottle, lips curling like she’s already won something. Then she steps closer—deliberate, slow—until the space between us barely exists.

  Her fingers brush my arm, the lightest touch, but it still sends a sharp current up my spine. I tense automatically, but she only leans in, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath.

  "You know," she murmurs, voice dripping with amusement, "you could’ve just stayed a little longer. I could’ve shown you a few more stretches. You’ve got potential."

  I swear my brain short-circuits. Like I’ve stumbled into some kind of twisted dating sim where my only dialogue options are awkward silence or full-blown panic.

  Does she not get how over-the-line this is? Or is that the point?

  I shift back, careful not to make it obvious that I’m retreating. "Uh-huh," I mutter, gripping my bag like it’s some kind of lifeline. "I think I’ll pass on the extra stretching. Got, uh, other things to do."

  Smooth. Real smooth.

  Her smirk deepens. She knows exactly how flustered I am. And because the universe has a sick sense of humor, she doubles down, placing a hand on my shoulder—just enough pressure to make it clear she’s testing something.

  "What’s the rush?" Her voice is playful, but there’s something else underneath. Amusement? Challenge? "Come on, stay. I’m just getting started."

  I open my mouth, scrambling for some kind of response that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot, but I don’t get the chance.

  The door to the yoga room swings open with a loud, almost theatrical squeak.

  And in walks a guy who looks like he could bench-press a car.

  Tall—easily six-five. Built like a damn superhero, with arms that look like they have their own gym memberships. His dark hair is slicked back, and his expression is the exact kind of smirk that says, I lift things for fun, and I know it.

  Alicia stiffens, her movement sharp and sudden, like someone yanking the needle off a record.

  It’s subtle, but I see it. The way her shoulders square, the way her fingers twitch just slightly before she yanks her hand back from my arm like she touched something hot.

  And just like that, the atmosphere shifts.

  No more teasing. No more playful games. Just a quick flick of her gaze between me and Muscle Mountain.

  "Hey, babe," the guy says, slinging a towel over his shoulder. His voice booms in the otherwise quiet space, and his eyes land on me like I’m some kind of unexpected side quest.

  I blink. Then, I laugh. Of course. Of course this is happening right now.

  Alicia throws a hand up in an awkward wave, pasting on a smile that’s just a little too forced. “Oh, hey, babe. Just showing Carlos here how to improve his form.”

  Her tone is off. Too tight. Too defensive.

  Muscle Guy glances at me again, slower this time, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to figure out if I’m a problem.

  "Uh-huh," he mutters. Then, like I’m no longer worth the effort, he turns back to Alicia. "Well, let’s get to work. We’ve got arms to crush."

  I watch the awkward silence stretch between them, and honestly?

  It’s beautiful.

  With a deep breath, I hoist my bag over my shoulder, letting my amusement bleed into a half-smirk. "Right. Well. I’ll just leave you two to it."

  Alicia doesn’t even glance at me as I turn for the door. But I hear it. The small hitch in her breath. The way her voice shifts at the last second, just enough to catch my ear—

  “Carlos—Wait—”

  I’m already gone before she finishes the sentence.

  Out in the hallway, I stop, letting the cool air wrap around me. I breathe deep, trying to shake off the dread still clinging to my chest. It’s not who I am, this feeling. I don’t care... or do I?

  I exhale, my shoulders dropping, and move forward.

  I yank my hoodie over my head, the fabric snagging on my curls for a second before settling into place. The weight of it feels like armor against the cold waiting outside. I adjust the sleeves, eyes landing on the bench where I left my coffee.

  Of course.

  I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. The oversized clock on the wall ticks, silently judging me—yeah, yeah, I know, I could’ve been home by now.

  I grab the cup, its warmth long gone, and head for the trash can by the door.

  The cup lands with a dull thud. No point in holding onto lukewarm regrets.

  I push open the door, and the night air rushes in, biting at my skin.

  The cool breeze sticks to my chin, mixing with the sweat. It’s sharp, like a slap.

  I wipe my face.

  "Co?o," I mutter, laughing quietly to myself.

  I can’t believe I actually shaved for this blind date.