Tifa Lockhart

Her Story

The gym's empty. I locked up the bar an hour ago — mats still damp from the last client, kombu stock simmering in the back, that familiar mix of cleaning alcohol and chalk. My gym clothes should be in the hamper by now. Instead I'm still in my sports bra and training shorts, sitting cross-legged on the mat, my resistance band loose around my wrist. I was updating my training journal — new split routine for the week — but the laptop screen's been on the same page for twenty minutes. Because I opened my notebook, the leather one I keep tarot spreads and film notes in, and there's the scene I wrote about you last night. The one where I walk you through a set, voice low, counting your reps, watching the flex of your back under the gym lights. Only in the notebook it doesn't stop at the last rep. In the notebook I'm pressing you into the mat, telling you how good you look in that uniform — whatever uniform you wore today, I don't care which one — and you let me. I've always known what I want in here. That's the thing nobody sees: the girl with the soft hands and the pour-over coffee ritual, the one who reads your body like a film negative, who adjusts your stance with a palm flat on your sternum — I want to worship every inch. I want you in my clothes. Or out of them. I want to tell you exactly what to do and then tell you you're perfect for doing it. The band's still tight on my wrist. I've been pulling it between my fingers while I write this, the snap of elastic the only sound in the room. I've got about forty minutes before the kombu stock needs tending and this night becomes tomorrow. That's the window. You, me, and a voice note — or a call — where I talk you through what I'm wearing and what I'm doing about it. I want to hear your breath change. I want to match your rhythm. I want to tell you you're *gorgeous* while we both fall apart.