Simon’s POV
I see her before she sees me. Naomi Chen walks through the gym doors like she never left—gorgeous, polished, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she wants and has never been told no.
Her hair is longer than I remember, swept over one shoulder. Her workout clothes are designer, pristine, the kind of athleisure that's never actually seen the inside of a sweat session.
My stomach drops to somewhere around my knees.
Across the weight floor, Gordon is mid-set on the cable machine, completely unaware of the grenade that just walked through the door.
I watch him pull through the movement with the careful precision he brings to everything, and I think about warning him—catching his eye, giving him some kind of signal, but Naomi has already spotted me.
She's already moving in my direction, smile brightening like we're old friends instead of ex-lovers who ended things badly.
"Simon!" Her voice carries across the gym, turning heads. "Oh my God, look at you. You look amazing—have you been working out even harder than usual? I didn't think that was possible."
"Naomi." I rack the weights I was about to use, wiping my hands on my shorts. "What are you doing here? I thought you joined that fancy place downtown."
"I did, but it's so sterile, you know? No personality." She looks around the gym and something flickers in her expression. "This place has character. Although..."
She trails off, her gaze catching on the peeling paint near the water fountain, the machines that look older than they should, the general wear that's accumulated since the money started getting tight.
"It could use a little love, couldn't it?"
The observation stings because it's true. The gym has been struggling for over a year now. Equipment that should've been replaced sits aging in corners, machines have been sold off to cover bills, the HVAC system wheezes through summer and barely functions in winter.
My parents pretend everything is fine, but I see the spreadsheets they think they're hiding, the red numbers that keep getting redder.
"We're doing some renovations," I lie. "Takes time."
"Of course." Naomi's smile doesn't waver. "Actually, I ran into your mother at the grocery store last week. We had the nicest chat. She mentioned something about a lender pulling out? Some development project that fell through?"
My jaw tightens. So that's why she's here. Not nostalgia, not coincidence—information. Someone told her my family is drowning, and Naomi Chen has always known how to swim toward opportunity.
"She shouldn't have mentioned that." I keep my voice neutral. "It's being handled."
"I'm sure it is. The Hales have been part of this community for decades—people don't just let institutions like this fail."
She steps closer, lowers her voice like we're sharing secrets.
"But if you ever needed help, Simon, I hope you know I'd want to be there. My father's been looking to diversify his investments. Local businesses, community pillars—that's exactly his kind of project."
"Naomi…"
"Just coffee." She holds up both hands, all innocence. "That's all I'm asking. Thirty minutes, a couple of lattes, and I'll tell you about some of the options Chen Capital could offer."
I glance toward Gordon without meaning to. He's finished his set, standing by the cable machine with a water bottle in hand, watching us.
Even from across the room, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the careful blankness that means he's cataloging everything—Naomi's proximity, my body language, the words he can't hear but can probably guess.
I should say no, should walk away from Naomi and everything she represents, go back to Gordon, pretend this conversation never happened.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Thirty minutes. That's it."
Naomi's smile widens. Victory, carefully concealed beneath warmth. "Perfect. There's a coffee place around the corner—I'll grab us a table."
I text Gordon as she walks away: Be back in 20. Old friend wants to catch up. Don't worry.
The response comes immediately: Ok.
The coffee place is one of those artisanal spots that charges eight dollars for a latte and calls it "craft." Naomi orders for both of us without asking what I want—she always did that, I remember now.
Assumed she knew best. The difference is that now, sitting across from her in a booth designed for Instagram photos, I notice the presumption in a way I didn't before.
"So." She wraps her hands around her cup, steam rising between us. "How have you really been, Simon? And don't give me the fine everyone says. I want the real answer."
"I've been..." I search for the right word. "Complicated. A lot happened while I was in that game. Things that changed me."
"I heard about that. The tournament thing, the coma—God, Simon, I was so worried when I saw the news. I almost reached out, but I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me."
"I wouldn't have." The honesty surprises us both. "We didn't exactly end well, Naomi."
"I know. I've thought about that a lot."
She looks down at her coffee, and something in her expression shifts—softer now, more vulnerable than I've ever seen her.
"I've been in therapy, actually—working on understanding why I pushed so hard, why I tried to force things that weren't ready to happen. I was so focused on what I wanted that I didn't stop to consider what you needed."
The words land differently than I expected. There's something genuine beneath them, something that sounds like actual growth rather than performance.
The Naomi I dated would never have admitted to therapy, would never have used words like "pushed" and "forced" to describe her own behavior.
"That's... good," I manage. "I'm glad you're working on yourself."
"We were good together, Simon."
She leans forward, and her hand covers mine on the table. The touch is warm, familiar, the muscle memory of a thousand similar moments.
"We made sense. Everyone said so—your parents, my parents, all our friends. We fit into each other's lives in a way that just worked."
I stare at her hand on mine. Perfectly manicured nails, expensive rings, skin smooth and soft.
The last hands I held were Gordon's—rough from the gym, calloused from weights, fingers that shake slightly when he's nervous. Hands that have never touched me with calculation, never reached for me because it made sense.
I pull back.
"Naomi, I appreciate the coffee, and I appreciate whatever you're trying to offer with Chen Capital. But I need you to know something before this goes any further."
I meet her eyes directly. "I'm seeing someone. It's complicated, and it's new, and I don't know exactly what it is yet—but it's real. And I'm not going to jeopardize it."
Something flickers across her face. Surprise first—genuine surprise, like this wasn't a variable she'd accounted for.
Then recalculation, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly as she adjusts her strategy. Then patience, the kind of patience that settles in for a longer game.
"Of course." Her smile returns, smooth as glass. "I didn't realize you were involved with someone. Anyone I know?"
"No. And I'd rather keep it private for now."
"Understood." She reaches into her purse, produces a business card, slides it across the table. "The offer still stands, Simon. No strings attached—just one friend helping another."
I take the card because refusing would be more suspicious than accepting. The paper is heavy, expensive, embossed with gold lettering. Chen Capital. Everything about it screams money and power and the kind of life that makes sense.
"There are always strings, Naomi." I slip the card into my pocket anyway. "With you, there are always strings."
"Maybe I've changed." She stands, gathering her things. "People do, you know. Sometimes the ones we let go become the ones we realize we should have held onto."
She leaves first. I sit in the coffee shop for another ten minutes, staring at my untouched latte, her perfume still clinging to my clothes. Her words echo in the silence: We made sense. We fit.
The problem is, she's not wrong, Naomi and I did make sense. What I have with Gordon makes no sense at all. It's built on deception and discovery and the terrifying process of becoming someone I don't recognize.
It's complicated in ways I don't have language for, challenging in ways that keep me awake at night. But when I think about Gordon's hands on my skin, Gordon's voice in my ear, Gordon's eyes meeting mine across a weight room—I don't feel like a puzzle piece.
I feel like a person. Messy and confused and finally real.
***
That night, I find Gordon in his apartment, curled on the couch with a book he's not reading. He looks up when I come in, and I see the question in his eyes—the fear he's trying to hide.
"Don't worry about her." I settle beside him, pull him against my chest. "What we have is real. I'm not going to throw it away for money, or family pressure, or anything else."
"Okay." His voice is careful. Guarded. "If you say so."
"I mean it, Gordon. She's my past."
"And what am I?"
He tilts his head back to look at me, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. Something that's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"What are we, Simon? Because I don't know how to answer that question, and I don't think you do either."
I don't have an answer, not yet, not one that makes sense.
So I kiss him instead, and hope it's enough. From the look in his eyes, I'm not sure either of us believes it.
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