Page 59 of Echo: Line
The gym is empty when I arrive. Small space carved out of the rock. Punching bag hanging from a reinforced beam. Weights stacked against the wall. Pull-up bar bolted into stone.
I strip off my shirt, moving carefully around the cracked ribs. The bruising has spread across my torso in shades of purple and black. Kessler's people were thorough. Professional. They knew exactly how to inflict maximum pain without causing permanent damage.
I start with bodyweight exercises. Push-ups. Sit-ups. The movements are familiar. Comforting. Each rep is a count. A rhythm. Something I can control when everything else feels like it is spiraling.
The ribs scream with every movement. Good. The pain grounds me. Reminds me I am still here. Still alive. Still capable of pushing through.
I'm halfway through my third set when I sense her presence.
Delaney stands in the doorway, watching. Silent. Waiting with her arms crossed.
"You should be resting," I say without stopping.
"So should you."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
I glance down. She's right. The stitches on my side have opened slightly. Blood seeps through in a thin line. I wipe it away and keep going.
"Alex—"
"I said I'm fine."
She crosses the gym floor. Stands directly in front of me. Forces me to stop or push through her. I stop.
"You're going to reopen those wounds," she says.
"I already knew that."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"Because I need to." The words come out harder than I intend. "I need to know I can still function. That I'm not broken."
"You're not broken."
"Four days with Kessler says otherwise."
She reaches out. Touches my chest gently, carefully avoiding the worst of the bruising. Her hand is warm against my skin. Steady.
"Come here," she says quietly.
Not a question. Not a demand. Just an invitation.
I should resist. Should maintain distance. Should protect her from the inevitable damage that comes from getting too close to me. Instead, I let her pull me closer. The walls I have spent years building collapse completely.
I kiss her.
Her lips part under mine, soft and warm. I taste mint and something sweet underneath, feel the sharp intake of her breath as I deepen the kiss. Her hands slide from my face to my neck,fingers tangling in my hair and gripping hard enough to sting. The pain grounds me, makes this real.
She pulls me closer and the kiss turns hungry. Her tongue sweeps against mine and heat floods through me, pooling low in my gut. Every nerve ending fires at once. Four days of torture and I barely felt it, but this—her mouth moving against mine, her nails scraping my scalp—this I feel everywhere.
My hands find her waist, slide under the hem of her shirt to bare skin. She's warm and soft and perfect. I pull her against me and she comes willingly, her body molding to mine like we were made to fit together. Her heartbeat pounds against my chest, racing to match the frantic rhythm of my own.
She makes a sound—half gasp, half moan—and it snaps whatever control I'm holding onto. I lift her and she wraps her legs around my waist, arms tight around my neck. My ribs scream in protest but I don't care. Pain doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the taste of her, the feel of her thighs locked around me, the way she's breathing my name against my mouth.
The movement sends pain lancing through my ribs but I do not care.
