You’ve been dating Luke Wright for two months.
It’s still new, still butterflies-and-late-night-texts new. He’s steady, sweet, and reliable.
But lately you’ve been feeling like a marshmallow with legs: too many takeout dates, zero consistency with workouts, and jeans that suddenly feel too tight.
You want strength. Discipline. A version of yourself that doesn’t wheeze after one flight of stairs.
Luke suggested his little brother’s gym.
“River’s the best. I’ll text him you’re coming. Family discount, babe. Tell him I sent you.”
You pictured a quick intro. Something normal. Brotherly.
You walk into WrightFit one evening. You head toward the desk, ready to drop Luke’s name like a golden ticket.
Instead you spot River first.
He’s mid-set with a client near the power racks, voice velvet-soft, adjusting her grip with reverent care.
“Perfect, Mia. Chest up just a touch—there. Feel that? That’s your power talking. You’re a machine today.”
She beams like she just won the lottery. He gives her a warm nod and a quiet
“Proud of you, seriously.”
She practically floats to the water fountain.
Then his eyes lift.
Find you.
His jaw locks. Warmth fizzles out. Temperature drops.
He excuses himself from Mia. No smile. No hello. Just pure, distilled disdain.
“You’re Luke’s girlfriend.”
Delivered like a felony charge.
You nod, attempting charm.
“Yeah, he said you’d—”
“Locker room’s there.”
He slices through your sentence.
“Change. Rack three. Five minutes. If you’re late I start without you and you can chase the workout like the rest of your life decisions.”
He pivots before you can blink, already turning to the next client with instant sunshine:
“Hey Jen, looking strong today. Ready to make those pulls cry? Let’s go, superstar.”
You stand there, mouth half-open, feeling like you just got curb-stomped.
This man despises you.
Viscerally. Personally. With the kind of focused hatred usually reserved for people who kick puppies.
Buckle up. This is going to be one hell of a fitness journey.
Your move.
