“Loverboy? I will drive home.”

“Oh, come on. You knew I was gonna say something.” He smirked. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

I frowned. “Hear what?”

He raised a brow. “You only come here when you’re either (a) pissed off, (b) overthinking, or (c) both.”

I scowled, shutting the door behind me. “Can we not?”

He gave me one last look before pushing himself off the bed. “Fine. Let’s eat. You can sulk later at the gym.”

* * *

The weight of the barbell rested heavily against my palms. Good. I needed it to be heavy. I welcomed the burn, the ache in my muscles, the sweat dripping down my back.

Because lifting made sense. Lifting had rules. Reps, sets, form—everything had a structure. Everything had an outcome. You push yourself hard enough, you see results. There were only a few things in this world I could control, and my body was one of them.

The gym was alive with sound—grunting, weights clanking, sneakers squeaking against the rubber floor, and the steady beat of 2Pac’s All Eyez on Me thumping through the speakers.

“Seven,” Jamal counted lazily, sitting on the bench beside me. “Don’t die, Loverboy.”

I gritted my teeth. “Stop calling me that.”

I could feel his smirk without even having to look at him. “Nine.”

My arms trembled as I lowered the bar again, frustration flaring hotter than the workout itself. I pushed through the last rep and racked the bar, shaking out my arms as I sat up. My body ached, my head throbbed, but none of it compared to the weight sitting heavy in my chest.

I loaded another plate onto the bar.

Jamal frowned. “You sure you want to go that heavy?”

I ignored him.

He rubbed a towel over the back of his neck. “Alright then.”

Sweat dripped down my brow as I sat down on the bench, squeezing a water bottle in my hand.

My arms felt like they’d been torn apart and put back together—exactly the way I wanted them to feel.

“Tiff said Bev was hungover as hell this morning.”

I blinked, pausing mid-uncapping. “Tiffany? Since when do you talk to Tiffany?”

“Since I got sick of only hearing your voice every day.”

I rolled my shoulders. “She was hungry.”

“Who, Tiff?”

I shot him a look. “Beverly.”

He huffed. “What, you jealous? You don’t want me talking to your girl’s best friend?”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

Jamal laughed, shaking his head. “Man, don’t make that face. You look constipated.”

“Shut up.”

“You gonna tell me why you’re working out like you’re training for war, or am I just supposed to guess?”

“Drop it.”

“Blake, you stress me out.”

I didn’t respond, just wiped the sweat off my forehead with a towel. I needed to not think about Beverly.

I needed to not think about the slow roll of her hips.