Page 77 of Snatched
“Yes.”
My voice cracks. “Very.”
He gives me a look that is somehow both innocent and not innocent at all.
“Great,” he says. “Let’s begin.”
And just like that, we step into our carefully-constructed emotional minefield, pretending it’s a gym.
If someone had told me ten weeks ago I’d willingly work out three days a week, I would’ve laughed, choked on my latte, and filed an HR complaint for emotional harassment.
But here we are.
Tuesday. Thursday. The occasional Saturday.
Colt, Colt, Colt.
Each session its own little universe.
Each week its own slow shift.
In weeks one and two, We keep things painfully, aggressively professional.
He shows me how to squat without my knees collapsing inward.
I show up in normal, non-chaos-inducing leggings.
We talk about the weather, protein intake, and whether NY bagels count as carbs or religion.
He keeps his distance, and I keep mine.
Mostly.
During weeks three and four, he starts nudging my weights up.
“You can handle more,” he says during one of our sessions. “You’re stronger than you think.”
At first, I think he means physically. Then I realize…he doesn’t. There’s more to working out than just the weights.
He starts checking in on my meals.
“Eat more,” he insists. “You need fuel. Please, Elena. Don’t starve yourself for some random date.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “But I refuse to eat chicken and rice like a gym bro.”
He laughs every time.
Week five, my dates start changing.
At first, the swipes feel the same—guys in Patagonia vests or men whose entire personality is their photo with a fish.
But something is different now.
Iam different now.
I show up to dinners or drinks not trying to be perfect.
I’m not rehearsing stories in the cab.
