The run was over. Lennox stood at the edge of the track, gasping, his muscles trembling not from exhaustion, but from the intense self-control it had taken to channel his anger into the ground instead of others.
Sloane didn't praise him. Didn't say a word. She just tapped her tablet screen and dictated the next phase.
"Get changed. Meet me in the lower weight room in seven minutes. We follow the schedule: upper body strength, TRX, medicine ball, static holds. No exceptions today."
Marcus clapped Lennox on the shoulder as the man silently headed toward the locker room. His face was flushed, shirt drenched in sweat, and his gaze discreetly followed Sloane's movements as she turned without a word and walked toward the internal staircase. Her shoulder still held slightly stiff, but her posture hadn't broken.
That woman is made of steel, Marcus thought, following her down.
The weight room was cool and shadowed, lit by fluorescent lights. The black rubber floor, mirrored walls, and neatly organized weights and equipment created a world of precision where only what could be moved existed. Weight – motion – control.
Lennox entered exactly seven minutes later. His shirt was dry, but his expression was just as grim. Marcus took out a clipboard and began noting. Sloane was already adjusting the TRX straps, one hand raised above her head as she fixed them to the ceiling. Lennox's eyes, despite himself, followed the motion – and this time he was the one who looked away first. Because he saw it: her left hand moved a bit slower. The muscle tensed, the motion took a second longer.
She still hurts.
"We begin," Sloane said, her voice sharp as a blade. "Three rounds, ten reps of TRX rows. Focus on form, not speed. Squeeze your scapulae, keep your core engaged. Then medicine ball throws against the wall, side rotation, four kilograms. Finally, static hold – one minute hang. No compromise."
Lennox nodded silently and moved to the TRX. He gripped the straps, stepped back, his body drawing into a taut arc. The first pull was smooth, so was the second. By the third, his forearms burned. He grunted at the fourth. By the seventh, his neck strained.
Sloane tracked the movements, reps, and time on her tablet. She didn't meet his eyes. But she knew exactly when the muscle trembled, when the shoulder over-rotated, when the form began to dangerously compensate.
"Slower. Reset. Stop jerking. Feel what you're doing."
After the final pull, Lennox let go of the straps, stepped back, and shook out his arms. His chest heaved, shirt clinging to his back. His gaze flicked briefly to Sloane, but she was already motioning toward the medicine ball.
"Now. Side rotation. Twenty reps per side. Focus on your core. Don't throw with your arms."
Lennox picked up the ball. The rubber coating sat heavy in his palm. He stepped back beside the wall, paused—and with the first throw, he knew: you can't fake this. Every rotation bounced back unless it was clean.
Sloane stepped closer, observing. She didn't speak—just noted. But the way she subtly pulled back her shoulder while bending down for something... Lennox noticed.
Why doesn't she say anything? Why no break?
Marcus sat on a nearby bench, watching the scene. His gaze flicked between them, then he muttered to himself:
"You two are going to kill each other one day. Question is—literally or metaphorically."
Sloane replied without a flicker:
"Today, just metaphorically."
The medicine ball thudded to the floor. Lennox set it down, wiping sweat from his brow—but didn't take his eyes off Sloane. And for the first time... there was no anger in his look.
Only the question: Why don't you stop?
She didn't answer. She just raised the tablet and said:
"Hang. One minute. Full body tension. Starting... now."
And the man stepped to the bar. And lifted.
The weight room slowly emptied. Marcus left to prep the afternoon schedule, and no other athletes arrived until noon. At this hour, the cool silence of the space belonged only to Sloane and Lennox. The training session was over—and unlike the past days, neither rushed off.
Sloane sat on the edge of a bench, tablet resting on her thighs, but no longer typing. Her shoulder throbbed with fatigue, and as she leaned back against the wall, she let her guard drop for just a moment. She stretched out her legs, her shoes pointed slightly outward, and watched the flickering ceiling lights above. Then—soft footsteps. Lennox. He sat beside her, without a word. Not too close, not in a threatening way. Just there. Like someone who didn't want to speak—but still wanted to stay.
They sat in silence. Breathing in sync.
Eventually, Lennox broke it.
"I was shit, wasn't I?"
Sloane turned her head. Her voice was tired but calm.
"You were better than yesterday. And yesterday you were better than the day before. That's enough."
"That's enough for you?"
"For me? This isn't about me."
Lennox gave a small smile—not happy, but as someone who understood she was still building walls. Not out of anger anymore, but out of habit.
"Listen," he said quietly, his voice not performative now, not defensive. "This morning... and what Marcus did to your shoulder... I know that... I mean, I see it. It's not over."
Sloane shrugged—carefully. Just enough to avoid pain.
"It will pass. These things always do."
"But you didn't say it hurts."
"Because it's not your problem," she replied. "And besides... you don't have to apologize. I know it wasn't intentional."
Lennox nodded softly. For a moment he just stared at the floor, then spoke again, a different tone this time.
"Then why... won't you look me in the eye?"
Sloane laughed. Tired, but sincere. She shook her head slightly, then looked at him.
"I'm not avoiding. You just piss me off, always staring."
Lennox smiled, a little embarrassed.
"I don't stare."
"Yes, you do," Sloane shot back. "During training, during runs, even when you think I don't notice. My peripheral vision catches it, Graves. Always has. But now, even more..."
"I just... I'm watching you," he said quietly. "What you're doing. How you're holding up. Because... I don't get it."
"What?"
"Why you're still here."
Sloane paused. Then gently set the tablet down beside her and answered honestly, quietly:
"Because someone has to control what you can't. And if I don't do it, no one will. I'm not here because I like you. Or because I want to get under your skin. I don't care about a happy ending. But I've seen what happens to someone who never learns to brake."
Lennox turned toward her. His gaze was no longer tense. No mockery. No defense. Just raw acceptance.
"And you did learn?"
Sloane raised her hand and touched her shoulder, where the pain still pulsed.
"Every time it hurts again, it reminds me why I had to."
Silence followed. Not awkward, not heavy. Just deep. Like when two people finally stop shouting and, for the first time, hear their own breath. Lennox looked up at the ceiling.
"I'm sorry I don't know how to do this properly."
Sloane nodded.
"I know."
"But I'm trying."
"I see that."
And that was enough. Not forgiveness. Not release. Just a small crack in the wall. A place where the light could finally start to seep in. The bench's cool metal no longer burned beneath them, and the silence that once stretched between them... had changed.
Lennox remained a few seconds longer, then slowly stood. Sloane watched him—not with suspicion, but not softly either. Just enough to still be herself.
"Bag," Sloane said, rising.
Lennox answered with a single nod.
As they walked across the room, the world stripped down again: bare rubber floor, bags swinging from iron hooks, sweat and echo. This was the only place Lennox had ever felt at home. But today... he stepped up differently.
Sloane walked ahead and fastened the straps. She didn't speak. No lectures. No reminders about the shoulder, or yesterday. She placed the tablet at the bench's edge, and when Lennox stopped in front of the bag, she only said:
"I don't want you to let it out now. I want you to hold it back. Stay within form. Two rounds of three minutes. Break in between. Just technique."
Lennox nodded and began wrapping his hands. His fingers moved quickly, expertly. His eyes flicked briefly to Sloane's shoulder—but she was already looking away.
He pulled on the gloves. The velcro closed with a soft rip. The air thickened around his chest, the movement inside him vibrated. The first punch was nothing. Just a test. The second found rhythm. The third... was personal.
Sloane stood in the background, arms crossed, observing. Her eyes caught every detail: the ankle pivot, the hip rotation, the shoulder roll. Every motion held the man's story—but now, he wasn't hitting from rage alone.
Now he understood what he was holding back. The bag thudded softly with each impact. Lennox didn't growl, didn't curse. His breathing was deep, focused. His face was still tight—but his eyes... weren't hunting.
After three minutes, Sloane spoke, calm as ever:
"Stop. Break."
Lennox stepped back, lowered his gloved hands, and sat on the bench. He said nothing. Didn't ask. Just looked at his gloves, like he was wondering what his fists had hidden all this time.
"Posture's solid," Sloane noted. "Pullback slips occasionally. Left hook comes from too low—risky if someone's working underneath you. Right cross lifts your shoulder slightly. But... you're in control."
Lennox looked up.
"That a compliment?"
"No," Sloane replied. "It's data."
He snorted but didn't argue.
"Another round?" he asked.
Sloane nodded.
"One more. But this time, know why every punch comes."
Lennox stood slowly, pulled his shoulders back, chest rising.
"Okay. I'll try not just to hit... but to say something with it."
Sloane didn't respond immediately. She just watched. Then finally spoke, softly:
"Then maybe someday... someone will hear it."
And Lennox stepped up to the bag.
And lifted again.
But this time, he wasn't just fighting with his body—he was speaking a language he'd never been taught.
The second three minutes passed. Lennox's punches weren't as hard, but they grew more precise. The bag swayed silently afterward, as if it too had grown tired—not from the force, but from the emotion that had finally been forced into structure.
By the final seconds, Sloane wasn't even watching the tablet anymore. Just him. Not his strikes—his breathing. His stance. His shoulder, which didn't pop out. His hips, no longer trembling. His face, no longer feral—but weighted from within.
"Stop," she finally said, pressing the timer.
Lennox stepped back. Wiped his forehead with a gloved hand, and with a soundless exhale, sat at the bench's edge. Sloane walked over. Didn't speak. Just looked at him sideways, and slowly set the tablet down.
"That's it for today," she said quietly.
Lennox nodded. His voice came hoarse.
"Thanks for... putting up with me again."
Sloane smiled. Tired, but sincere.
"I don't know how long I'll manage. But today... you were survivable."
Lennox snorted.
"That's a compliment from you, right?"
"More of a statistical analysis."
They both smiled—at the same time, for the first time. Just for a moment, but it was enough. Then Sloane turned away.
"Go shower. Eat something. You have thirty minutes. Then rest. That's non-negotiable."
Lennox nodded and left. He was already at the stairs when he looked back. Sloane still stood there. Gently stretching her shoulder back, as if her body warned her—but her eyes no longer held distance. Just quiet.
Lennox said nothing. Just nodded toward her. Not showy. Just respectfully. And left.
Sloane watched him go, and when he disappeared around the landing, she sighed.
Not from fatigue.
But like someone who hadn't just led a workout today—but pulled someone back from the edge.
She headed the other way. They didn't walk side by side.
But today, they weren't walking against each other anymore.
Just... in the same direction.