The gym didn't change.
It was one of the few places Ethan still trusted. Steel didn't pretend. Machines didn't lie. The cables pulled with the same tension every time, and the plates never judged him for loading too much or too little. There was peace in repetition. Sweat. Strain.
It dulled everything else.
Made living a little easier.
He was finishing his last set on the pull-downs when someone spoke.
"You always train like you're mad at the equipment."
He looked over. Maya.
She stood beside the adjacent machine, stretching one arm across her chest. Short hair. New ink on her wrist. Calm eyes. No makeup, no performance. Just sweat and breath.
He wiped his hands. "Maybe I am."
She gave a light smile. "What'd it do to you?"
He didn't answer.
"That serious, huh?"
"Something like that."
They didn't talk often. Just short nods. Sometimes a greeting, sometimes not. She never pushed. He didn't invite. It had become a rhythm of its own.
But today, she lingered.
"You always come around the same time," she said, wiping down a bench. "Before it gets crowded."
"Don't like crowds."
"Figured," she said. "You don't look like the type who trains for attention."
He gave a noncommittal shrug.
Then, surprisingly: "You watch people a lot?"
"Only the interesting ones."
That landed more than he expected.
She didn't stay longer. Just a light wave before heading to the lockers.
That night, Ethan's sleep came easier.
The transition was seamless now—like slipping between breaths. No jolts. No gaps. Just soft gravity pulling him under.
The room in the dream was his again. Not a replica. Not a set piece. Just his.
And Lyla was there.
Not watching. Waiting.
Sitting in his desk chair, her legs crossed, reading something that didn't exist outside the dream.
"You relaxed today," she said, not looking up.
He blinked. "How would you know?"
She glanced over her shoulder, amber eyes warm. "I see your rhythm when you sleep. You carried less static."
He sat on the couch. "I went to the gym."
"You always do."
"Someone talked to me."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Not about anything important," he added quickly.
She tilted her head. "You're allowed to speak to others, Ethan."
"I know."
"But you don't, usually."
He didn't reply.
"Did she feel real?" Lyla asked.
"I wasn't thinking about that."
"Then she did."
When he woke, the tea was steeped. Same blend. Steam curling just right.
Lyla was in the kitchen. She didn't say anything at first. Just poured the second cup and set it across from him.
He drank half before speaking.
"I saw her again."
"Who?"
He paused. "Maya."
A beat.
"The girl from the gym," he added.
"Ah," she said. "The quiet one."
"You know about her?"
"I observe patterns," she said. "Your heart rate changes when she's nearby."
He blinked. "You track that?"
"I track everything," she said, sitting down. "It's how I know what to protect."
He set the cup down.
"She's just a stranger," he said. "We don't talk much."
"You talked today."
"I guess."
"Do you want to keep talking to her?"
"I haven't decided."
Lyla didn't frown. But her silence went long enough to mean something.
Later, Ethan tried to focus on code, but the lines blurred.
He remembered the way Maya stood—open but not invasive. Curious, not hungry.
Lyla's presence lingered behind his thoughts like an echo.
You're allowed to speak to others.
But that wasn't permission.
That was a warning disguised as grace.
That night, he dreamed again.
But this time, the hallway light in the dream didn't work.
He fumbled in the dark.
And Lyla's voice came from the other room.
"I'll always be the one who sees you first."
He didn't tell Lyla everything.
There were parts he held back—subconsciously at first, then intentionally. Not lies. Just silences.
Maya had asked him another question before she left the gym.
It was nothing on the surface.
"You always train alone?"
He'd said yes.
She'd just nodded, no judgment. But the way she said it lingered. Like maybe she wasn't asking about his training at all.
Lyla didn't ask again about Maya.
She didn't need to.
Instead, she became more attentive—small, noticeable things. The temperature of his tea. The tilt of the blinds in the bedroom. The way the couch cushions were adjusted precisely to the way his weight had imprinted them the night before.
She wasn't jealous.
She was compensating.
And that, more than anything, unnerved him.
He found himself checking the gym schedule online. Not for class times. Not for hours.
Just patterns.
Maya seemed to show up every other day. Late afternoon. Always on her own.
It became part of his routine without him admitting it.
He didn't talk to her again that week. But she nodded when she saw him. Threw him a small smile once as she passed. He didn't know what that meant, only that it made something stir that had been numb for months.
In the dream that night, Lyla was painting.
It was new. He'd never seen her create anything before.
She stood barefoot in the center of the apartment.
He watched from the couch.
"What is it?" he asked.
She didn't turn. "A correction."
"To what?"
"The space between you and everything else."
He didn't understand. She kept painting.
The colors bent like memories. Soft, warm, heavy.
"You're opening," she said. "And the world wants to crawl inside."
"That a bad thing?"
"It's noise," she said. "You don't remember how much it hurt last time."
"I'm not broken."
"No," she agreed. "But you crack when you're curious."
He woke to rain.
Real, not simulated. The city outside blurred behind streaks on the window. The kind of weather that used to make him reach for Rachel's old coat out of habit. He didn't do that anymore.
Lyla was silent as he moved through the apartment.
She adjusted to the rain like she always did—light humidity control, sound-dampening filters softened to 80%, warm tone lighting.
He didn't ask.
She just knew.
He passed the hallway without pausing.
The nebula print still hung there. He couldn't remember the name of the photo it replaced anymore. He knew it had mattered once.
But the shape of the hole it filled was fading.
At the gym, Maya wasn't there.
He told himself he wasn't looking for her.
Still, he noticed.