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“H URRY THE FUCK UP WITH that soup! I’ve got ten on deck!” Our head chef, Giuliano, shouts at Gabby.

She doesn’t spare him a glance, stirring faster until her messy, dark brown bun wobbles in her hair net and another bead of sweat trails her neck. “Lily, you didn’t tell me how it went at the gym last weekend!”

“O-oh, it–” I bite my lip. I’d rather not tell Gabby how horrendous Josh was at the start of my first day or that I got a refund for her gift card, especially now that I’ve made a new friend out of it. “I have a gym buddy to go with now.”

Her eyebrows jump. “What?! Who? What are they like? Why are you blushing already?” She gasps. “Is it someone cute?”

I sigh, but I’m smiling. “His name is Remington. He’s really sweet.”

Tossing her spoon in the sink, Gabby yells, “Lily has the order out! It's hot!”

Ready with heat-resistant gloves up to my elbows, I hoist the pot off the stove by the handles. Gabby immediately replaces it with a fresh pot, and Paolo swarms to take my place at the stove. But I hobble, my back straining by the second as I penguin-walk with a vat of boiling soup.

“Jesus, fuck, Lily,” Giuliano hisses. He snatches the pot from my arms, effortlessly hoisting it to his waist. “Just say you can’t do it and stick to what you’re good at. You could burn yourself, and it’d probably be blamed on me. You’re lucky you make shit taste better than any of us can. Otherwise, I’d stop fighting for your job.”

I swallow hard, left standing empty-handed with a stinging heart. On top of insulted, I feel stupid. I’ve witnessed how boiling water can rip through skin, and I’m not trying to do anything dangerous. I just want to be helpful.

Throwing my gloves beside Gabby, I speed-walk to the sink. After washing my hands, I hurry back to the clean cutting board table. Fetching vegetables by the armful, I dice 15 onions, skin and chop 12 carrots, and smash as many garlic cloves as possible in under five minutes. Normally, Gabby, Ben, or Paolo would handle smaller tasks like these, but Ben already peeled over fifty Roma tomatoes, and Giuliano swears our menu’s “Lily’s Hearty Minestrone” tastes better when the Lily-in-writing can get her hands on every ingredient. I love cutting my own vegetables, so I don’t mind either way.

“Behind,” I say.

Like me, Paolo is quiet despite his Italian roots. He nods, spinning to the fire-brick oven to pull out another pizza. His face flushes dark red from all the steam, just like mine is about to. Entering the stove’s wall of heat, I dump seasoning into my fresh broth.

Gabby nudges me with a bright smile. “You said Remington, didn’t you? I know a Remington!”

A jolt of fear snaps through my chest. Someone as beautiful as Gabriella Ricchetti - with long, sleek hair, plump curves packed with smooth, muscled power, and captivating brown eyes - would be a far better match for someone as gorgeous as Remington.

I stifle the nerves in my voice, turning back to my soup. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do!” The clanking of pots and bubbling soup drown us out, so Gabby leans in close, adjusting to a regular volume rather than having to shout. “He works at the club I told you about. The one I’m into.”

The residual, churning anxiety in my gut explodes like Gabby just threw a match into gasoline. Does that mean Remington is into kink or BDSM? I don’t have a problem with it - in fact, I wish I had more courage to explore it - but that would make Remington leagues ahead of me in terms of sexual experience.

A wallowing, throbbing pain breaks my heart. I guess I didn’t realize how desperate I was to pursue Remington romantically. He probably thinks of me as a weird, innocent little flower.

“Have you, um– Had a good time with him there?” I ask.

Gabby gasps. “Are you interested in finally experimenting with someone?”

“Shh.” I check over my shoulder. “I don’t have any experience, either way.”

“So? I told you I’d show you the ropes!” She nudges me, softening her voice even further. “Literally.”

I shake my head, blushing down my chest. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her I’d be open to trying Shibari with the right person.

Gabby sighs. “You still don’t realize you’re a bombshell, huh?”

I flush hotter, cleaning splotches of soup off the countertops beside the stove as an excuse to turn my back to Gabby. She’s really into big breasts, and I know she’s trying to compliment me, but in no way is my awkward, uncoordinated self a bombshell supermodel. Every time I’ve hooked up with someone, they’ve felt so uncomfortable around my blubbering shyness that they just get off and leave. Attraction to only my boobs doesn’t last long.

But Gabby stops me with a gentle tug on my apron. “Did I say something to upset you?”

“I’m fine.”

When she doesn’t reply, I lift my head to meet her eyes.

She frowns. “You’re a bad liar. I was going to say I’ve never laid a hand on the man, but I think you’d get along well with Remi. He’s the Dungeon Monit–” Paolo rushes past, and Gabby returns to the soup. As soon as we’re alone again, she softens her voice even further. “Well, in vanilla terms, he’s one of the bouncers, so he’s usually looking out for us and making sure everything stays safe and consensual.”

“Oh,” I say. Evidence of Remington’s reassuring, protective force flashes through my mind. “No wonder.”

Gabby does a double-take at my tiny smile before bursting into laughter. “Oh, I see what’s happening. Go for it, Lils. You’re right; he’s sweet. I can totally see it.”

My heart flips. “See what?”

“You two. Duh. Together in general, or at the club.”

On the bus home, I can’t stop thinking about what Gabby said about Remington. My stomach knots over itself, but I keep having to bite back my smile. Gabby saying she could see us together planted an image of me by Remington’s side. I’ve never imagined myself beside someone so clearly, but if he’s into consent enough to mediate between everyone at the club, I find that unbearably attractive. And maybe I might look okay beside him; even if he doesn’t dress as alternatively as his tattoos imply, I still wear all black and love my studded jackets.

Tucking my phone close to my chest, I make sure the other bus passengers can’t see over my shoulders or in the window’s reflection behind me as I open an incognito search tab. I’ve already researched and asked Gabby plenty of questions, but I can’t remember exactly what Dungeon Monitors do.

Within seconds of my search, my stomach plunges. If Remington is the Dungeon Monitor at Club X, he has more experience than I assumed – possibly more than anyone else in the club. And here I am, not only a fresh vanilla bean but also awkward as hell.

Quickly closing the tab, I slump into myself. Why do I care about this so much? We’re just friends, if that. “Gym buddies” means nothing more than acquaintances who casually discuss athletics.

The second I enter my dark apartment, I stumble over Celeste’s cat toy in the doorway. She greets me with the tiniest meow, and I laugh.

“Hello, baby.” I squat at her side as she runs her sleek, black body against my thigh.

The second her food bowl is full, and I’ve shoved a microwavable burrito in my mouth, I flop face-first on the couch. It never hits me how exhausted I am after work until I’m safe at home. I reek like garlic, but I can’t keep my eyes open. I don’t even budge when Celeste’s warm body curls over my back, weighing me into the cushions. She must’ve decided this is where we’re sleeping tonight too.

My alarm clock wakes me with soft, quick smacks against my cheek. I erupt into sleepy laughter, stroking Celeste’s head. “Okay, okay, I’m up.”

She let me sleep in today. Sunlight streams through my sheer black curtains, casting over the cheap TV I won at last year’s work holiday party. Dust dances through the sunbeam, settling over my cluttered coffee table of books, candles, and crusty, old plates.

My heart stings. Poor Celeste shouldn’t have to live in filth, but I couldn’t lift an arm one extra time last night when I got home, let alone do this week’s dishes after five days of cooking hell. Maybe I need a new job. Co-workers throughout the years have taken speed to contend with the workload, but I lived 18 years too long witnessing alcohol destroy Dad’s mood to want to go down that road, and spent 15 more years rebuilding my life from scratch without his help just to give up on my dreams now. I want to own my own restaurant someday, even if it takes 20 more years.

Once the dishes are done, Celeste follows me into the bathroom. Products I’ve used throughout the week clutter the small sink, leaving me nowhere to place my phone. I throw my scattered makeup into a bag and the rest into my disastrous top drawer until the counter is finally clean. Celeste springs onto the open countertop, enjoying her newfound perch to watch me in the mirror with a tilted head. I bump my shoulders in my tiny shower as I turn my back to the water.

Then my actual alarm rings.

I gasp, fumbling for my phone with wet fingers. It’s already noon. I had no idea Celeste let me sleep in this late, but now I only have 30 minutes to hop on the bus to meet Remington in time.

Celeste meows as I scramble to my bedroom dresser in a towel, throwing almost everything I own onto the floor until I find an old, black sports bra at the bottom.

Grunting, I fight with the elastic pinning my elbows to my sides, leaving my towel to flop on the ground. I yelp, dropping to the floor to hide behind my bed; I just flashed my whole ass to the street window. Celeste tenses, and I wriggle across the carpet to pet her head in reassurance, my arms still trapped against my chest.

Fuck, I’m stuck. An electric thrill shoots up my abdomen as I struggle with the stretchy fabric, except this time, my imagination paints a clear image of Remington tying me up.

“Oh, my God, Lilibeth, stop,” I hiss, jerking my hand through one hole just enough to yank the sports bra the rest of the way on.

With my wispy bangs styled neatly over my forehead, I leave the rest of my hair wet, combing it into a high ponytail. Celeste jolts off the counter, just as terrified as ever from the toaster’s loud declaration that it has completed its duties. I laugh as I collect my pre-workout carbohydrates. “My poor baby. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Celeste’s bright yellow eyes track me as I rush out the door.

Throwing my gym bag over my shoulder, I zip my loose, gray jacket. With it comes the nerves. I’m really doing this - meeting a practical stranger to work out. Except he already knows more about my innermost thoughts than I’d share with most friends, and I know more about him from Gabby than he probably intended.

As I flop onto the bus, my stomach gurgles in complaint. Munching on my toast doesn’t help. I’m unsure what to expect or what I’ll seem like around Remington today. He was sweet last weekend, but I’m afraid I’ve built up our agreement in my head all week. We’re just gym buddies, I remind myself.

And I’m not sure I’m the best gym buddy - more like an annoying younger sister to babysit on the machines. Josh said I shouldn’t wear this jacket while working out, so I put on yoga pants that stretched high enough up my back to cover the mark. I planned to take this baggy jacket off once I warmed up.

But I’ve never been in only a sports bra and yoga pants in front of anyone before. Even during sex, I prefer to wear a shirt, keep my back snug to the sheets, and hide the rest of me beneath the covers. Plus, it was a tight squeeze to get into this bra, and I didn’t have time to see how I fully looked before I left, but I’m probably spilling out of it. I already know I can’t act the part of an experienced gym-goer, but I hate not even looking the part.

Stepping off the bus has my nervous system on high alert. Maybe I should just go home. But as I reorient my windblown bangs in the gym doorway, someone calls my name.

Standing in the cement-walled Dynamo Fitness Center lobby, Remington waves with his hefty gym bag wobbling over his broad shoulders. He’s in thin black shorts and a taut black T-shirt with lightly rolled sleeves, giving me his same casual, half-up smile. “Hey, Lilibeth.”

My name on his full lips stirs my belly into overwhelm. I grip my tote bag straps, but I’m smiling. “Hey, Remington. Sorry, I’m late.”

“I’m just early. I haven’t had a gym buddy in a while, so I’ve been looking forward to it.”

My heart flips hard enough to lift my gaze. He was looking forward to this too?

Remington meets my elated eyes with an even softer smile. “Let’s head in and claim a spot to warm up.”

I nod, following after Remington as he hoists his heavy gym bag over his back with one rippling arm. It stirs excitement in my belly that feels far too inappropriate for the first few seconds we’ve met today. I need to behave myself, so I stare at his heels as we walk.

This gym is busier than the one Gabby sent me to, and Remington was right; it seems far less hardcore. Women laugh together on the treadmills, speed walking at a breezy, reachable pace. A few men cheer another on at the bench press, a welcome change that surprises me enough to widen my eyes.

Remington veers off, but I only know so by his voice shifting to my left. “Lilibeth–”

He gasps, but I stop just before I crash into a column three times wider than me. Thankfully, it’s padded, but Remington still races to a stop by my side with wide eyes.

I flush hot, no longer smiling. “O-oh, sorry, I– Sorry. I wasn’t looking ahead of myself.”

Hustling to the spot Remington picked out, I plop my tote beside his gym bag without lifting my head.

But Remington lets out a soft exhale. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you nervous?”

“Yes.” I dig through my bag for my refillable steel water bottle.

But when I peek at the bulky form blocking out the gym lights in front of me, Remington is still staring. “Am I making you nervous?”

I shake my head, standing next to him to face our reflection in the mirror. “I-I’ve been looking forward to this too. A lot.”

I said it quietly, but Remington’s eyebrows loosen in the mirror. Gripping my left foot by the toes, I stretch my quads, doing my best to fake calm despite Remington’s sweet, gentle smile stirring powerful nerves in my belly. At least these nerves feel good: exhilarating, hyper, and anticipatory.

Remington copies me, bending his knee to grab his left foot. I wobble from watching his perfect form, and he holds an arm out for me. I grab it on instinct. Remington meets my eyes. His playful, sharp stare spikes my stomach to my knees. I burst into shy giggles, and Remington softly chuckles.

“I’ve been thinking we should establish some gym rules since that trainer fucked it all up for you,” Remington says.

“Oh. Okay. Like what?” I wobble again. We finally switch legs.

“Like once you hit pain past a good burn, it’s time to switch to the next exercise. Don’t push yourself past it. That’s how injuries happen.”

I nod, copying Remington as he stretches his arms, pulling his elbow over his head. “Okay. What else?”

“I’ll show you the ropes in terms of equipment safety, but I’m not going to be another mansplaining dick.”

I laugh. “What if I need more explanation, though?”

“You can ask me anything, of course. But I think you’ve got this. From what I saw of you exercising, it seemed like you were underestimating your strength.”

I drop my arm, ducking my head with it. Remington keeps his eyes trained on himself in my peripherals, but I still feel self-conscious. What if I disappoint him? With how much crap I get at work for how weak I am, I think he’s overestimating me .

With my jaw clenched, I speak up with a racing heart. “I don’t know. I still sucked at carrying the soup yesterday, and it was just as humiliating.”

Remington drops everything to turn to me. “Oh, man, I’m sorry. Are you lifting with your legs instead of your back?”

I frown. “Yes. Everyone always tells me that, but that’s what I don’t understand – of course I’m using my legs. I’m standing when I pick it up, and putting weight on my legs. But when things get heavy enough, my back gets involved too, and my whole body strains.”

Remington hums. “I think I might have an idea what’s going on.”

Within a minute, Remington and I have gathered dumbbells in various weights, some type of back brace from Remington’s bag, and smaller wrist straps - all piled together on a workout bench. He stacks the smallest dumbbells before pushing the heaviest closer to me. “Do you think the soup’s heavier than 25 pounds?”

Hoisting the dumbbell with one large end in either palm, I droop it between my knees, just like I would with the soup. “I don’t know, actually. It might be similar to this weight, but the soup’s just so big and awkward, and it’s sloshing around and still boiling, so it’s hard to carry without spilling or burning my legs on the sides of the pot.”

“Alright, then, let’s make it more awkward.”

I laugh. “Oh. How?”

“We can try to lower your center of gravity with a different type of weight.” Remington strides over to another weight rack, sliding off a 25-pound, donut-shaped metal weight with one arm. He drops it onto the bench, and it slips a little from its rounded edges.

“I see. Awkward,” I mutter.

Remington whips his head around to me, letting out a sharp, quick laugh. “You’re funny.”

I can’t stop myself from smiling. “I’m not.”

“No, you are funny. And not in an I’m-making-fun-of-you way. In an I-didn’t-expect-Lilibeth-to-be-so-witty type of way.”

I bite back my smile, but my lip escapes my teeth’s grasp anyway. “Do I seem too shy to be funny?”

Remington chuckles again, grabbing his back brace. “Oh, no. I know too many people to think it makes sense to judge at first glance. Especially with the shy ones - you all are secret tigers. Or maybe you’re a panther with your black hair and those big, hazel eyes. Or are they green?” I bite my lip as he leans even closer - until he stops himself, zipping his focus away. “But anyway, I don’t know, something about how you say your jokes hits just right. It’s always unexpected in the best way. If I wasn’t so pissed at that trainer, I would’ve busted out laughing with you and your dark sense of humor about that gift card.”

Ducking my head, I laugh. If Remington keeps looking at me with so much warmth in his dark eyes, I don’t think my buzzing knees will last through our workout.

But his voice appears inches from my side, lighting my spine on fire. “Do you know how to put this back brace on?”

“N-no.” I meet his eyes, and my heart flips.

I haven’t been this close to him before, but now I can see a transparent silicone placeholder for an eyebrow piercing through his angular left brow. A swirly tattoo peeks from his hairline, covered by his choppy, short black hair over his forehead. Soft hints of his scent waft over me - a gentle mint from his toothpaste.

Taking the belted brace from him with shaking fingers, I loop it around myself, adjusting it on my waist to match where Remington strapped his on. “I-is that right?”

“It looks like it. Is it tight enough?”

I bite my lip. “I think? Can you– Can you check?” My heart spikes into my throat. This belt sits right over my mark, and I haven’t let anyone touch my lower back since I was a kid. Why do I want Remington to? Should I take it back?

But Remington says, “Sure.”

Stifling my anticipation, I hold as still as I can. Remington slips two fingers into the belt around my back, probably thinking it’s the least offensive place to touch me. Really, it’s the most sensitive place on me. The introduction of his thick fingers zaps my spine with a hot flash of nerves, expanding my ribs as I stretch myself taller.

Remington pulls away quickly, but I’m too flustered to check his expression. Why did that feel so nice? I’m left with a ghost of his touch tingling my back. Is it because I haven’t been touched there in so long, or because it’s Remington who touched me?

“Tighten it just a bit more, and you’re all set.” He circles back in front of me, nodding as I tighten my belt’s velcro latch. “That’ll help brace your back and hopefully take some pressure off.”

My back does feel straighter. But I hum. “Normally, the handles reach my shoulders, so getting it off the stove is even more awkward.”

“Okay, then let’s try something–” Remington hoists the weight higher, facing me like he’s holding a metal platter at my shoulder height. “How about this?”

I’m nervous I’ll embarrass myself by doing something terribly wrong. Remington’s encouraging, firm nod convinces me to try anyway. Placing my feet at my shoulder width, I reach for the weight as if I’m grabbing the handles.

Remington smiles. “Okay, good news! I can definitely give you some ideas on how to lift easier when something is above your waist.”

My heart soars. Remington demonstrates a way to place one foot in front of the other, rocking my weight from the front foot to the back to lift the heavy pot off the stove. The second I try it out with his advice, I hoist the weight from his arms with far greater ease.

“Holy shit, you’ve got powerful legs!” Remington announces to the gym. I peek behind us, and Remington covers his mouth. “Sorry. I got excited for you. But I don’t think you’re weak at all, Lily. You’ve got that in the fucking bag. Keep going - let’s see how you carry it after.”

His words boost my muscles, giving me the strength to carry the weight to the workout bench.

But Remington’s expression shifts into stark seriousness. “Oh, Lilibeth— That’s not painful for you?”

I drop the weight with an echoing thud through the gym. “I’m used to it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “You must have a powerhouse back if you don’t have regular injuries and can carry things like that all week.”

I duck my head. “N-no. I feel really weak.”

“You might feel that way, but listen— I swear it’s not you, okay? Actually, have you even looked at the muscles that must be forming on your back from this? Look in the mirror.” The second Remington sees me tense from his suggestion, he waves off my worries with his hand. “You don’t need to take your jacket off; just bunch it up in the front so the fabric is tight against your back.”

Gathering my jacket in my fists, I look behind myself at Remington. Thank God my ass looks good in these yoga pants. If Remington checked me out, I didn’t catch it in time: he’s too busy gaping at my back.

I check a third time, making sure the mark on my back is covered. “W-what? Is it weird?”

“Dude,” Remington rasps. “You’re fucking ripped .”

I sputter out a laugh. “I-I’m not!”

He gives me one quick, sharp laugh again. “Yes, you are! Look at you! Shit, what did I say, you’re a badass. You carried so much soup that your back is stronger than mine.”

My laughter bubbles out of me without warning, louder and higher-pitched than I’d normally allow in public. Remington laughs with me, and my heart soars. We attract a few stares, but it feels fitting; every second with Remington feels special. I meet his eyes, and more butterflies fill my chest than I’ve experienced with anyone else.

He pulls his eyes off me, hoisting the weight between his legs. Mimicking my awkward soup-carrying stance, he widens his knees and arches his back to hobble across the gym with the weight swinging wildly between his legs. “I better train up to match you.”

“Don’t!” I chase after him to grip his arm, stopping him as laughter steals the rest of my breath.

Remington takes one look at my hot red cheeks and rumbles out heavy, sharp laughter in quicker succession. It’s such a sweet, goofy sound that my cheeks kill from how hard I’m smiling.

Refocusing ourselves, Remington gives me a sly grin.

“Just so you think I’m not saying anything creepy, I’ll show you how to carry heavy things down low just by shoving your ass out behind you.”

I burst into heavy laughter as Remington over-exaggerates the arching and flattening of his back, activating his legs just as he explained - by thrusting his ass out behind him. When I try it myself, I’m amazed.

And disappointed. “It was that simple? That’s embarrassing.”

But Remington crosses his arms. “What’s embarrassing is that whoever trained you at work decided to give you shit instead of teach you. How are you supposed to know something you’ve never been taught?”

As I stand there, gaping at Remington’s powerful form defending both my heart and body, I’ve never felt more loved.

We speed through the rest of our workout with an added perkiness to our movements. After the workout rushes by, I hate having to say goodbye, but Remington pulls out his phone in the gym lobby. After typing something into his phone, he shows me his screen.

Remington’s phone number stares back. “Here. You don’t have to text me, but feel free to take a picture of my screen in case you’d like to reach out sometime. I had fun with you today.”

My heart flutters. I can’t help but smile, even though my shoulders are rising. I feel like a dorky middle school girl again, unable to remember how to speak to reply to him.

“T-thanks,” I mutter, opting to open a blank text message instead.

He opens his mouth to speak, but as I step closer to his side to copy his number, he stifles his breath. I hadn’t realized how close I got to him until he froze, but now I can’t move away without making it extra weird. Not that I want to. I don’t know what this says about me, but even his light sweat smells alluring. I draw in one last inhale of him, my shoulder erupting into goosebumps beneath my jacket as his breath whispers down my side.

Sending him a quick text, I tuck my phone into my pocket. “I’ll see you next week?”

Remington doesn’t say anything. When I look up at him, he breaks into a sly smile. Except the gaze I just caught on him spoke of something else. A deep, desperate longing rumbles in my lower belly, heating my cheeks.

“Ready for another disgusting goodbye hug?” He opens his arms, and I laugh.

Tucking my cheek against his damp chest, I hug him a little tighter this time. “Yes.”

Remington’s heart gallops faster beneath my ear than I expected it to. Like last time, he gives me a lingering, tight squeeze, bringing a brighter grin to my smile-sore cheeks. “See you next week, Lilibeth.”

He pulls away with a wave, spinning just before he bumps into a bike rack. We meet eyes and laugh, and that’s the last I see of him this weekend.