Amy’s POV
The gym smelled like sweat, citrus body spray, and determination. I was on my second round of sprints, trying to outrun everything tangled in my chest—Charlie’s message, the memory of Camilla’s smug smile, and the way my own voice still cracked when I said their names out loud. I didn’t want to think about any of it. I wanted to burn it all away. So I ran harder, faster, until the air burned my lungs and my legs trembled.
I had been coming to this summer training camp three days a week, mostly because it was the one place where I didn’t have to smile or explain myself. No one here cared about school gossip. No one asked about my relationship status. They just ran, stretched, and sweated in silence.
I was halfway through a cooldown stretch when I heard the sound of sneakers behind me and the familiar rustle of a plastic cup holder.
“Please tell me those are for me,” I said without turning around.
James’s voice was smug and full of trouble. “Only if you haven’t passed out yet.”
I turned and found him standing there, a cocky smile plastered across his face and two large iced coffees in his hands. He wore joggers and a sleeveless hoodie, and his curls looked even messier than usual, like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a Nike ad.
“Is this your way of stalking me now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nah,” he said with a lazy shrug. “Just checking if you still cry when you run.”
I snorted, taking one of the coffees and pressing the cold plastic against my cheek. “Rude. But fair.”
We sat down on a nearby bench under the shade. I sipped my drink and gave him a sideways glance. “You know, there’s a couples steam yoga session starting in twenty minutes.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Couples?”
I grinned. “Well, we are fake dating, aren’t we? I figured we should make it believable. Plus, I could use a laugh watching you fall over.”
He groaned dramatically. “That’s not even real exercise.”
I leaned closer, poking him in the ribs. “If you survive it, I’ll buy you tacos.”
His eyes narrowed playfully. “You drive a hard bargain, Garcia. Fine. But if I die in there, I want fries at my funeral.”
We changed quickly and walked into the steam room studio, where the air was already thick and heavy with heat and eucalyptus. The instructor gave us mats and smiled at us like we were some hot couple in a movie montage. I could feel the sweat on my neck before we even started.
The first few poses were easy—some deep breathing, gentle stretches—but it didn’t stay that way for long. Soon we were balancing on one foot, twisted in ways that felt unnatural, the steam clinging to our skin and making everything slippery and intense.
James wasn’t terrible, but he wasn’t great either.
“Still think this isn’t real exercise?” I teased, glancing at him as he wobbled in a half-lunge, half-pretzel pose.
His hand reached out, steadying himself on my hip, and I felt it like a jolt of lightning. His fingers were warm, firm, and didn’t move right away. My breath caught, just for a second, as his palm rested there a moment too long. He smirked, but there was something different in his eyes—something quieter. More serious.
“Just trying not to break my face,” he said, his voice softer than before.
I nodded, trying to focus, but my heart had picked up its own rhythm, one that had nothing to do with yoga. We shifted into another pose, and I stepped slightly off balance, not expecting the ground to tilt the way it did. My foot slipped.
James caught me instantly.
His arms were strong around my waist, holding me in place, pulling me closer than either of us probably meant to be. I froze in his grip, my hand braced against his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath my palm.
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
I looked up, meeting his eyes, and something thick and unspoken passed between us.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I whispered.
His gaze didn’t waver. His hands didn’t let go.
“Like what?”
I swallowed.
“Like this fake thing,” he said, barely above a whisper, “is starting to feel dangerously real.”