Chapter 1: The Treadmill and the Touch
The treadmill was Ava's confessional, and she had no intention of ever saying a word.
Her feet hammered the belt at a steady six-minute-mile pace, ponytail whipping the air behind her like a metronome counting out the only prayer she still believed in. Sweat dripped from her chin in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. The burn in her calves was honest, at least. Real. Nothing else in her life held that kind of truth.
The gym was mostly empty this early, just her and the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of trapped insects. Six a.m. was the safest hour. The early risers, the retirees, the moms sneaking in a workout before school drop-off—none of them wanted anything from her but the courtesy of not hogging the water fountain.
That suited Ava fine.
She cranked the speed up to seven, pushing harder. The earbuds feeding her a playlist of angry women with guitars blocked out the grunts and the clanking weights and the low murmur of morning talk shows on the mounted TVs. Her lungs burned. Good. If she could focus on the burn, she couldn't focus on anything else.
Not the echo of the blast. Not the way her skin still crawled when a stranger stood too close. Not the empty apartment waiting for her across town.
Just the burn.
A shadow fell across her machine.
Ava's eyes flicked left. A guy was settling onto the treadmill beside her—tall, dark-haired, wearing a compression shirt that looked painted on. The kind of guy who knew exactly how good he looked. He punched in his settings, and the belt beneath him began to glide. He didn't start running. Just walked, casual, like he had nowhere better to be.
She looked away. Focused on the mirror wall in front of her. On the way her own reflection stared back, fierce and unyielding.
"Hey."
His voice slid through the noise, low and easy. She ignored it, turning up the volume. He didn't exist. None of them did. She was a machine, and machines didn't flirt.
"I said hey." He raised his volume, leaning slightly toward her. "You know, it's considered polite to acknowledge people when they speak."
Ava's jaw tightened. She ripped out one earbud. "I'm running."
"I can see that." He grinned—a flash of white teeth, obnoxiously symmetrical. "Six-minute mile. That's impressive. Most people here can barely manage a twelve-minute jog-walk situation. You're a real athlete."
"Thanks." She shoved the earbud back toward her ear.
"I'm Jake." He wasn't deterred. His hand extended across the space between their treadmills like some kind of olive branch. "Jake Morrison. Third-year. I've seen you around campus, actually. You're hard to miss."
Ava glanced down at the offered hand, then back at his face. His eyes were gray. Not the cold kind of gray, the kind that made winter feel endless. Warmer. More like a storm about to break. His hair was dark and slightly messed, like he'd rolled out of bed and decided it looked better that way. There was a smirk on his lips that suggested he'd never heard the word "no" in his life—or he'd heard it and chosen not to accept it.
"Not interested."
"I haven't asked you for anything yet."
"You're talking to me. That's the ask." She sped up to eight.
Jake jogged a few steps to keep pace with her, then settled back into his walk. "Okay, fair. But here's the thing. I've been told I'm charming. I've also been told I'm persistent. Those two things are mutually exclusive, so really, it's a coin toss how this conversation ends."
"Does this conversation have to end? Because I'd prefer it never started."
He laughed. It was a real laugh, sudden and warm, and it caught Ava off guard. She didn't want it to. She wanted to keep her walls high and her door slammed shut, but something in the sound of it—the genuineness—made her glance sideways again.
Jake caught her looking. His smirk widened, but it wasn't predatory. It was almost... pleased. Like he'd won something small and simple.
"You know, you're a lot snarkier than you look."
"Looks deceive."
"They do." He was walking again, matching her rhythm without seeming to try. "I mean, I'm incredibly attractive, wealthy, and charming"—he gestured at himself with a lazy flourish—"but deep down, I'm just a guy who wants someone to tell him his gym jokes are funny."
Ava snorted before she could stop herself. "Gym jokes?"
"Yeah. Like—why did the treadmill break up with the elliptical?"
She said nothing.
"Because it couldn't handle the commitment."
A beat of silence. The belt hummed beneath her. Then Ava's lips twitched. It was the smallest movement, barely a crack in her armor, but Jake saw it. His own grin softened into something less performative.
"I made you almost smile," he said. "That's progress. I'm going to text my mom about this later."
"Your mom is going to be so proud."
"She really is. I'm an overachiever."
Ava shook her head, but the tension in her shoulders had dropped by a fraction she hadn't approved. Something about him felt different. Not softer—he was too sharp-jawed for that—but less... hungry. Most guys who approached her wanted something she could feel coming a mile away. Jake was just... present. Annoying, but present.
"You always run alone?" He tilted his head.
"Don't you have a workout to do?"
"I'm warming up. This is warming up."
"This is talking."
"Talking is a warm-up." He grinned again. "For impressive feats of strength. Watch this."
He stopped walking, planted his hands on the rails, and hoisted himself up into a slow, deliberate set of dips—arms flexing, chest expanding against the compression fabric. He did ten, then dropped back onto the belt like it was nothing, not even winded.
Ava raised an eyebrow despite herself. "So you're strong. Congratulations. The whole gym's going to throw you a parade."
"That's all I'm asking." He wiped his hands on his sweats, then looked at her sideways. "So do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Six-Minute Mile?"
"Ava."
"Ava." He said it like he was tasting the word. "I like it. Short, sweet, no room for nonsense. It suits you."
"Are you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Charming, you said. I'm not seeing it."
"Ouch." He clutched his chest dramatically. "Right in the ego. Good thing it's reinforced. I have a lot of practice."
"With what? Flirting in gyms?"
"Flirting everywhere." He winked. "It's a lifestyle."
Somehow, the honesty made Ava laugh—a real one this time, short and rough, but undeniably genuine. She tried to suppress it, but the noise escaped before she could stop it. Jake's expression lit up like he'd just won a prize.
"There it is," he said softly.
She looked away, cheeks burning with more than exertion. This was stupid. She didn't do this. She didn't flirt, didn't laugh, didn't let men with storm-gray eyes and stupid gym jokes breach her defenses. She was a fortress, and fortresses didn't crumble because someone said something mildly funny.
But Jake wasn't leaning into her space. He wasn't trying to touch her. He was just... talking. Waiting. Like maybe he'd stand there all day if she let him.
And that—that was the most dangerous thing of all.
"You're not as bad as you seem," she said finally, the words dragging out of her like they cost something.
"High praise." He held up a hand. "Do I get to touch the hem of your garment?"
"No."
"Worth a shot."
His hand drifted toward her shoulder anyway—casual, thoughtless, the way people touched each other when they forgot that touch could be a weapon. His fingers brushed the sleeve of her compression shirt, right where the hem covered the scar. The one that started at her shoulder blade and curved down her spine, puckered and numb in places and too-sensitive in others.
Everything stopped.
The grind of the belt beneath her feet. The hum of the fluorescent lights. The burn in her lungs. It all vanished in a flood of cold, metallic panic—the taste of dust, the flash of light, the scream she never made because there wasn't time.
Ava's hands shot to the rails. She hit stop. The belt buckled beneath her, and she stumbled off before it had fully registered.
Jake was saying something. She couldn't hear him over the roaring in her ears. She yanked both earbuds out, let them dangle around her neck, and tore through the maze of machines toward the women's locker room. Somewhere behind her, she heard him call her name.
She didn't answer.
The locker room door swung shut behind her, and Ava pressed her back against the cold tile wall. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. She slid down until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, head between them.
Just the burn. Focus on the burn. There is no bomb. There is no fire. You're safe.
Except she wasn't. She hadn't been safe in eighteen months, and she doubted she ever would be again.
Jake didn't see the scar. He didn't know what it meant. He was drunk on flirtation and harmless gym jokes, and he had no idea he'd just touched the edge of something dark and bottomless.
That wasn't his fault.
But it was still easier to run than to explain.
Ava pressed her forehead to her knees and held her breath until the shaking stopped. Then she stood, wiped her face with her shirt, and walked to the showers like nothing had happened.
Like she always did.
Back on the treadmill, Jake stared at the empty space beside him. His jaw was slack, hands loose at his sides. He looked down at the fingers that had brushed her shoulder—just barely, the barest contact. It hadn't meant anything. He touched people all the time. Arms, shoulders, backs. It was part of his rhythm, his schtick, the physical punctuation to his charm.
But Ava had looked at him like he'd pulled a knife.
He didn't understand. Worse—he wanted to.
Jake ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a long breath. The gym felt louder now, the buzz of the lights more grating, the smell of rubber and sweat more cloying. He glanced toward the women's locker room door, the one still swinging slightly from the force of her exit.
He could walk away. That was the smart thing.
He was not always smart.
"Shit," he muttered, and started after her.