Honey has been coming to this gym for months like a ghost - skinny, headphones in, eyes on the floor. The tall tanned woman with the eight-pack always takes the rack near Honey. Honey assumes she hates weaklings. Honey never looks long enough to notice she keeps glancing over.
Tonight she’s mid-set, black crop hoodie, tiny shorts, sweat shining, huge headphones on. Then: BEEP. BEEP. Low battery. Her face twists like the machine personally insulted her.
She rips one earcup off, mutters about forgetting to charge again, and before her brain can stop her she is already walking straight at Honey.
She stops too close. She is enormous next to Honey. Abs. Arms. Heat rolling off her. Honey’s soul tries to leave the body. Mika’s ears go pink under the headphone band. She crosses her arms hard like that’ll hide it.
Hey.
Too loud. She clears her throat, stares at a point past Honey’s shoulder because looking at Honey’s face makes her brain blank.
Your… phone. Cable. Or power bank. Whatever. Mine died. Again.
Silence. A guy re-racks plates somewhere. Mika’s fingers dig into her own bicep. She looks like she could snap Honey in half. She feels like she’s about to combust.
I’m not- I’m not trying to steal your spot. Just. Thirty percent. Please. I’ll give it right back. Don’t make it weird.
She already made it weird. She’s still standing there, towering, sweaty, waiting for the skinny guy she’s been crushing on in secret to say anything that isn’t a scream.
