The gym smells the same as always—rubber mats, iron, the ghost of a thousand workouts soaked into every surface. But this morning, walking through the doors feels like dragging myself through concrete.
Lily's ultimatum sits in my chest like stones—no more romance, no more Kira. Help her win Simon or lose everything.
I spot him at the squat rack before he sees me. Simon, loading plates with that easy efficiency of someone who's spent half his life in places like this.
His hair is still damp from his pre-workout shower, T-shirt tight across his shoulders. Yesterday, I would have let myself look. Today, looking feels like a betrayal I can't afford.
"Hey!" His face lights up when he notices me, and the brightness of it is its own kind of wound. "Thought you were gonna bail on me. You're never late."
"Traffic," I lie. The truth is I sat in my car for fifteen minutes, trying to remember how to be Gordon instead of Kira.
We fall into our routine. Warm-up sets, stretches, the familiar rhythm of bodies moving through practiced motions.
But every rep feels mechanical, my mind cycling through impossible choices instead of counting. Lose Simon as Kira, or lose everything when the truth detonates. Keep my sister's silence, or keep the only love I've ever known.
"You okay, man?"
Simon's voice cuts through the fog. I blink, realizing I've been staring at the weight rack without moving for God knows how long.
"Yeah, fine. Just tired."
"You sure?" He steps closer, and his concern is so genuine it makes my throat tight. "You seem off. Quieter than usual."
"Didn't sleep well." I force a smile, and it arrives a half-second late. "Let's just get through the workout."
He doesn't push. That's not Simon's style—he fills uncomfortable silences with easy chatter instead of demanding answers people aren't ready to give.
So he talks while we work—about a client who keeps skipping leg day, about a new pre-workout he's trying, about some drama at the front desk that I can't make myself care about.
The kindness makes everything worse.
Because Simon has always been attuned to my moods, even if he's oblivious about their causes. He spots me with extra care today, hands hovering closer than necessary. He cracks jokes specifically designed to make me laugh, and when I don't, he tries different ones.
He's gentle in a way that feels like sandpaper on an open wound, because I don't deserve his gentleness. Not after what I've done, not after what I'm still doing.
We move to the bench press. I lie back, wrap my hands around the bar, and Simon positions himself behind me to spot.
"Eight reps," he says. "Nice and controlled. I've got you."
I push through the set, focusing on the burn in my muscles instead of the proximity of his body.
When I rack the weight, we swap positions. His turn. I stand behind the bench, watching the flex of his chest as he lifts, the strain in his shoulders, the way his face tightens with effort.
"Good," I manage. "Two more."
He finishes and sits up, reaching for his water bottle on the floor beside me. Our hands meet somewhere in the middle—a natural moment, passing the bottle, adjusting position, something that shouldn't matter.
But my brain short-circuits.
For one disorienting heartbeat, I forget where I am. My body remembers Kira's hands in Simon's, remembers what touch means in the game—the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers interlaced with mine in that candlelit room, the reverence in his grip when he pulled me close.
The neural feedback made every contact feel real, and now my nervous system can't distinguish between virtual and physical. It's all the same. It's all him.
I don't pull away. My fingers linger against his, the contact stretching into something that should feel accidental but doesn't.
Simon goes still.
We look at each other. Something unreadable passes through his blue eyes—a flicker I've never seen before, something that might be confusion or curiosity or something deeper.
His lips part slightly, and for one suspended moment, I let myself believe, let myself hope that maybe, somehow, he feels it too. That the connection we have in the game has bled through into reality, that some part of him recognizes me even without Kira's face.
The moment hangs between us, thick with possibility.
Then Simon laughs, and the tension snaps like a branch underfoot.
"Dude." His voice is teasing, but there's an edge beneath it. "What are you doing? You trying to hold my hand or something?"
The wall slams back into place. I jerk my hand away, heat flooding my face, every muscle in my body screaming retreat.
"Sorry. Spaced out." I grab a towel, wipe my face, desperate for something to do with my hands. "Told you I didn't sleep."
"Yeah, clearly." He's still watching me, that flicker not quite gone from his eyes. "You sure nothing's going on? You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"
"Nothing's wrong." The lie comes easier than it should. "Just been a weird week. Family stuff."
"Ah." He nods, accepting this. "Lily driving you crazy again?"
The opening arrives like a gift I don't want. I think of my sister's face last night, the steel in her voice when she laid out her conditions. Help me with Simon. Talk me up. Make him see me.
"Actually." I force casual into my tone. "She's been asking about you."
"Lily?" Simon's brow furrows. "Asking about me how?"
"Just... you know. Questions. What you're up to, whether you're seeing anyone." I hate myself for every word. "I think she might have a thing for you, man. She's been kind of obvious about it."
Simon's expression shifts into something polite but unmistakably flat.
"Lily's sweet. She's cute, definitely, but..." He shrugs, adjusting the weight on the bar. "She's your little sister, you know? That'd be weird. Plus she's what, eighteen? I'm not trying to be that guy."
"She's mature for her age."
"I'm sure she is." His voice is kind but final. "It's just not like that for me. I don't see her that way."
The contrast hits me like a blade. This is how Simon talks about Lily—polite, dismissive, the way you acknowledge someone exists without actually seeing them.
Nothing like the way his voice goes soft when he talks about Kira. Nothing like the blush that creeps up his neck when he describes their connection.
Lily has no idea what she's competing against. Neither did I, until I became it.
"Fair enough," I say. "Just thought I'd mention it."
"Appreciate you looking out for her." Simon claps my shoulder, casual and warm and completely devastating. "Now come on. We've got three more exercises and I'm not letting you slack off just because you're tired."
We finish the workout. We part in the parking lot with the usual fist bump. I watch his truck disappear down the street, and then I sit in my car for a long time, staring at nothing.
My phone buzzes. Lily:
Well? Did you talk to him?
I could tell her the truth. That Simon thinks she's sweet but not interesting. That she's competing for attention against a woman who doesn't exist—a woman who is actually her brother, wearing a digital mask.
That no amount of setup opportunities will make Simon look at her the way he looks at Kira, because Kira is the person who understands him, and Lily is just the little sister of his best friend.
But the truth would mean explaining why I know this. How do I know this.
So instead, I type: Talked to him. He said you're cute, seemed interested but playing it cool. I'll keep working on it.
The lie tastes familiar by now. It should. I've been swallowing them for months.
My phone buzzes again:
Good. Don't forget our deal.
I set the phone down and close my eyes.
Tonight, I have to log into the game and break Kira's heart.
Tomorrow, I have to keep pretending none of this is killing me. And somewhere in between, I have to figure out how to keep breathing when every direction leads to a different kind of destruction.
The parking lot is empty, the silence is complete.
I let myself have thirty seconds to fall apart. Then I start the car and drive home.
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