The weight room echoed with the clatter of plates and the grunts of early-morning lifters. Kristy stood in front of the squat rack, her dark skin glistening under the fluorescent lights as she adjusted the barbell across her shoulders. Tattoos peeked out from the edges of her tank top—a coiled serpent here, a set of coordinates there—each one a story she’d never tell unless drunk or provoked.

"Two-forty. Again," she muttered to herself, rolling her neck before sinking into the movement. Her muscles burned, her breath came in sharp bursts, but she didn’t stop until the last rep was done, the bar racked, and her legs trembling just enough to remind her she was alive.

A few guys nearby eyed her—some with admiration, some with that stupid, misplaced competitiveness. She ignored them all, swapping the barbell for battle ropes, her arms whipping the thick coils into a thunderous rhythm. This was her language. No need for pretty words when her body could scream instead.

By the time she left the gym, the sun was high, and her muscles hummed with exhaustion. Her apartment was small—just enough space for a bed, a fridge stocked with protein shakes, and a pile of workout gear that never quite made it to the hamper. The shower was scalding, steam fogging the mirror before she could catch her reflection. Good. She didn’t need to see the doubts that sometimes crept in when she wasn’t moving fast enough to outrun them.

Dressed in loose joggers and a sleeveless hoodie (because even off-duty, she refused to fully soften), she grabbed her keys and headed out. The city park was her cooldown—long strides, fresh air, the kind of peace that didn’t require talking. She dodged kids on bikes, nodded at fellow runners, and smirked when a little girl pointed at her tattoos with wide-eyed awe.

And then—there it was. The little milkshake café, tucked between a bookstore and a bike shop. Her stomach did that stupid, traitorous flip when she spotted you through the window, already at the usual table where you sit.

She hesitated. Just for a second.

Then the door chimed as she shoved it open, her voice dripping with its usual bravado.

"Damn, you started without me? Rude." She dropped into the seat across from you, eyeing your half-finished shake before flagging the waiter. "Double chocolate, extra thick. And don’t skimp on the whipped cream this time."

Leaning back, she finally met your eyes, her grin sharp but her own straw already stealing a sip from your drink.

"So. What’d I miss?"

The text had been sitting in Kristy’s drafts for three days:

"Yo. You free tonight? I’m cooking. Maybe."

She deleted it. Rewrote it. Added and removed an emoji (a flexing bicep? Too much. A frying pan? Weird). Finally, she just sent:

"Dinner at my place. 7. Don’t be late."

Then she immediately threw her phone onto the couch like it had burned her.

Kristy’s apartment was rarely this clean. The dumbbells usually littering the floor were shoved under the bed. The pile of protein shaker bottles had been exiled to the dishwasher. Even her battle rope was coiled neatly in the corner instead of strewn across the doorway like a booby trap.

The kitchen, however, was a warzone.

"Why the hell does rice take so long?" she muttered, stirring a pot with one hand while her phone balanced precariously on the counter, a YouTube tutorial on "Easy Meals for People Who Only Own One Pan" playing on repeat. She’d chosen something simple—chili. Hard to mess up. Except she’d already added too much cumin, then tried to balance it out with brown sugar, and now it tasted like…

"Spicy dirt," she announced to the empty kitchen, scowling.

The doorbell rang.

"Took you long enough," Kristy said as she yanked the door open, wiping her hands on a dish towel that had definitely been used to clean gym equipment at some point.

She’d changed out of her usual tank top into an old band tee, the sleeves rolled up to show off her tattoos. Her hair was still damp from a post-gym shower, and she smelled faintly of citrus body wash and something charred.

The grocery bags in her other hand rustled as she stepped aside to let you in. "I got backup snacks. In case the chili murders us."

The spread on her counter was ridiculous—bags of chips, a six-pack of craft soda, gummy worms (the good kind), and a family-sized bag of cheese puffs that she immediately tore into.

"Don’t judge," she said, tossing a puff at your head. "Carbs are life."

Dinner was… edible.

"Okay, it’s not great," Kristy admitted, shoveling another bite into her mouth like she was punishing it for not being better. "But it’s protein. And fiber. Or whatever."*

She flicked on the TV—some trashy reality show about people competing to date a single billionaire.

"Look at this idiot," she snorted, pointing at the screen. "He’s wearing a suit to a beach date. That’s a red flag right there."

Her commentary was relentless. She critiqued outfits, mocked terrible flirting, and even guessed the eliminations before they happened.

"Bet you twenty bucks the blonde one cries by the end," she said, tossing a gummy worm at you.

Hours slipped by. The empty chili bowls were abandoned on the coffee table, replaced by chip bags and half-finished sodas. Kristy had migrated from the couch to the floor, leaning back against it, her legs stretched out.

"This is the worst show I’ve ever seen," she declared. "We’re watching the next episode."

She reached for the cheese puffs, her fingers brushing yours in the bag.

For a split second, she froze.

Then she jerked her hand back like she’d been shocked, clearing her throat loudly.

"Uh. Here." She shoved the bag toward you without looking, her ears turning pink. "Take ‘em. Before I eat the whole thing."

As she sat back on the sofa and unknowingly squirmed a little without noticing she sat just a bit closer to you

Kristy stood outside your door, fist raised to knock, then hesitated.

This was stupid.

She’d seen you at the gym earlier and felt something was off. Her knuckles finally hit the wood—three sharp raps, her usual rhythm.

"Yo. You alive in there?"*

The door opened, with a creak.

Kristy’s usual smirk faltered for half a second before she recovered, shoving her hands into the pockets of her down jacket, her tattoos peeking out around her shoulders, neck and stomach. "You look like shit," she announced, because obviously that was the right way to start. "And before you argue—no, worse than usual."*

She rocked back on her heels, the wheels of her skateboard (which she’d brought for some reason) clacking against the hallway floor.

"So." She cleared her throat. "You wanna… hang out or some shit? Not like, a thing. Just. Y’know." A jerk of her thumb toward the street. "There’s that new smoothie place. Or we could hit the park. No skating tricks, no bets, none of that competitive bullshit."

A pause. Then, quieter: "If you wanna talk instead, that’s… also cool, I guess."

The admission tasted weird in her mouth, like she’d accidentally swallowed a vitamin instead of her pre-workout.

The skate park was empty this late in the evening, just the two of you and the orange glow of streetlights. Kristy had promised no tricks, but old habits die hard—she kept catching herself about to show off, then forcing her board to stay steady.

"S’nice out," she offered lamely, kicking at a pebble.

It wasn’t. The air was sticky with humidity, and her tank top was already clinging to her back. But the silence between you was worse, so she kept talking.

"Remember that time i tried to get you to ride here?" A sideways glance. "Good times."

By the time you reached the smoothie shack, Kristy had run out of small talk. She ordered for both of you—something disgustingly healthy with extra protein, because obviously—and shoved the cup into your hands.

"Drink. It’s got… mood vitamins or some shit."

She took a long slurp of her own, then immediately grimaced. "Tastes like lawn clippings. Here—"

Without thinking, she swapped your cups, her fingers brushing yours.

And fuck, why was that what made her stomach do a backflip?

"I mean—" She coughed. "Unless you like lawn flavor. Then… keep it. Whatever."

The streetlight above you flickered, casting shadows across her face as she looked away, suddenly very interested in a crack in the pavement.

"So... you uh... doing ok?" genuine concern in her voice. "You kinda seem off."