Chapter 5 After hours

The gym is almost pitch-black when Rey slips through the side door, hoodie pulled low and duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The only light comes from the exit signs and the glow of the vending machine near the back wall. It hums like a threat.

Her body itches to move. Being benched has always made her feral, but this suspension? This is worse. This is punishment with no outlet, no timeline, no apology she's willing to give.

She hasn't spoken to Ivy since the fight.

Not that she's counting days. Or reliving that moment where she got dragged away with her fists clenched and Ivy glaring like she wanted to eat her alive. Or how Rey had shouted something she half-regretted-something about selfishness, about trust, about this team not being big enough for both of them.

She drops her bag beside the free weights and pulls off her hoodie. Tight tank. Busted-up leggings. She starts stretching. Hamstrings, shoulders, back. Her muscles are angry, coiled from too many days of pacing and nowhere to go.

Then she hears it.

A clang. Not hers.

She freezes.

Another sound-lighter this time. A treadmill humming to life. A slow whir. Steady footsteps.

Rey's head snaps up.

And of course.

Of course.

Ivy Ransom.

Hair in a messy braid. Sleeves rolled up. One earbud in. Running like she's trying to outrun the last three years of her life.

Rey nearly groans aloud.

She debates leaving. There's still time. She hasn't been seen. No reason to stick around. No reason to share air, let alone oxygen thinned with sweat and unsaid things.

But then Ivy looks over.

Sees her.

And doesn't stop running.

Doesn't even flinch.

Rey stiffens. There's a spark of irritation-of course Ivy doesn't acknowledge her. Not a smirk. Not a middle finger. Not even a raised eyebrow. Just that same laser focus like she's starring in her own goddamn Nike commercial.

Rey grabs a jump rope.

Fine. If this is a standoff, she's not blinking first.

She starts jumping.

One minute.

Two.

The slap of the rope against the floor syncs with the rhythm of Ivy's steps.

She hates it.

The silence stretches long and mean.

Rey breaks first.

"You always run like you're being chased," she says, not looking at her.

Ivy doesn't stop. "Maybe I am."

Rey scoffs. "By what? Guilt?"

That gets her attention.

The treadmill slows. Ivy steps off, sweat gleaming down the side of her neck. Her eyes are unreadable. "No. Just ghosts."

Rey lowers the rope, breathing hard. "You've got those?"

"Don't we all?"

Silence again.

God, she's annoying.

And infuriating.

And kind of-Rey hates herself for this-beautiful, in that brutal, cold-weather way. Like a mountain you have to climb even though it might kill you.

Rey grabs a medicine ball and starts slamming it into the ground. Over and over. The sound echoes. Sharp and angry.

Ivy wipes her face with the hem of her shirt, revealing a strip of toned stomach. Rey looks away fast.

"Didn't know this was your time slot," Ivy says, tone casual.

"It's not."

"Then why are you here?"

Rey doesn't answer.

She's not going to admit she hasn't been sleeping. That she's been chewing on guilt like it's gum she can't spit out. That she replayed their fight so many times, she started hearing Ivy's voice in her dreams.

Instead, she shrugs. "Didn't know the gym had a dress code."

Ivy glances down. "You jealous of the leggings?"

Rey tosses the ball. "Please."

And then-God help her-Ivy smiles.

It's small. Barely there. But it's real. And Rey feels it in her stomach, low and hot, like that first drop on a rollercoaster.

She grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink to distract herself.

Ivy pulls a resistance band from her bag and starts stretching again. They work in silence for a while. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's not hostile either. There's a rhythm to it now. A beat.

Ivy shifts onto the mat beside her. "You always this dramatic when you lose?"

Rey freezes mid-curl. "Excuse me?"

"That fight," Ivy says, eyes still on her own stretch. "You lost your mind."

Rey sets the weight down harder than she needs to. "I was pissed."

"Clearly."

"I care."

That silences Ivy for a beat. "You think I don't?"

Rey turns to her, chest still heaving from the reps. "I think you care about winning more than people."

Ivy doesn't flinch. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

Ivy sits up. Looks at her, really looks. And for once, there's no smugness. No armor. Just... honesty.

"I froze," she says quietly. "Back then. With Liza. I didn't mean to. But I did. I thought I was protecting her by not dragging it into the spotlight. I thought I was protecting the team."

Rey swallows. Her throat's tight.

"I get that," she says, just as quiet. "But it still hurt."

"I know."

They're close now.

Too close.

Rey can see the cut healing on Ivy's cheek. The way her eyes flicker, like she's trying not to blink too long. There's a heat between them that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was-buried under all the shouting and shoulder-checking.

She doesn't know what makes her say it.

Maybe it's the silence.

Maybe it's the sweat, the night, the fact that they're both stripped down to something raw and real for once.

But Rey says, "You always smell like peppermint."

Ivy blinks. "What?"

"Your muscle balm or whatever. It's weirdly nice."

Ivy huffs a laugh. "You trying to flirt with me, Navarro?"

Rey rolls her eyes. "Please. If I was flirting, you'd be blushing."

Ivy tilts her head. "Bold of you to assume I'm not."

Rey's breath stutters.

It's a joke. Probably.

But there's something in Ivy's eyes. Something softer.

Rey stands. Her legs feel shaky, but not from the workout.

"I should go," she says.

Ivy nods. "Yeah."

Neither of them move.

Finally, Rey turns. Grabs her bag. Shoulders it.

And Ivy calls out, just before she reaches the door, "Navarro."

Rey pauses. Looks back.

"You gonna be here tomorrow night?"

Rey shrugs. "Maybe."

Ivy's mouth curls, just slightly. "Then maybe I will too."

The door clicks shut behind her.

And Rey walks out into the night with a stupid, fluttering feeling in her chest.

Not a crush.

Definitely not.

Just... butterflies.

From rage.

Probably.

Hopefully.

God help her.