Noodle Arms

Seanna POV

The gym smells like rubber mats, lemon disinfectant, and bad decisions.

I breathe it in anyway.

Because this — the hum of fluorescent lights, the quiet whir of treadmills cooling down, the soft thunk of weights being racked — this feels like freedom. Or at least the closest thing I’ve found to it.

I tuck a loose curl behind my ear and glance down at my outfit for the hundredth time tonight.

Pants.

Actual pants.

Black leggings, technically. Paired with an oversized gym T-shirt that still feels scandalous even though it covers me from collarbone to mid-thigh. If my mother could see me now, Clair Morgan would probably faint directly onto the nearest scripture.

The thought makes my mouth twitch.

“Girl, you’re staring at your own reflection again,” Nate calls from across the front desk.

I look up to find him leaning against the counter, protein shake in hand, eyebrows raised like he’s been personally entertained for the last five minutes.

Nate is… compact. That’s the polite word. Short, wiry, permanently energetic — like someone bottled a golden retriever and gave it a personal trainer certification.

“I am not,” I say, which is a lie.

“You are,” he grins. “You do it every shift. One of these days you’re gonna hype yourself up and accidentally enter a bodybuilding competition.”

I snort softly. “With these noodle arms? Please.”

His eyes flick to my forearms where they’re visible beneath my rolled sleeves.

“…Seanna.”

“What?”

“You literally unloaded three crates of protein powder by yourself yesterday.”

“That’s farm strength,” I mutter automatically.

It always is.

Farm strength from hauling feed buckets. From wrestling stubborn fence posts. From years of work that my father called character building and my back called please stop.

Still.

I glance toward the weight area, where the racks sit mostly empty this late at night.

“I just thought I’d be… stronger by now,” I admit quietly.

Nate’s expression softens — which is unsettling enough on its own.

“You are stronger,” he says. “Progress isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just… less struggling than before.”

Less struggling.

If only he knew how broadly that applied.

I busy myself with the nightly checklist before my thoughts can spiral.

Inventory first.

I move through the small supply closet, scanning bottles and boxes, clipboard in hand. Disinfectant wipes — stocked. Towels — stocked. Protein bars — suspiciously low, but Nate has a known addiction so I make a mental note to accuse him later.

Next comes equipment wipe-down.

The gym is quieter now, the late-night crowd thinning to the usual handful of dedicated insomniacs and stress lifters. My sneakers squeak softly against the floor as I move from machine to machine, methodical, practiced.

This part of the job, I actually like.

There’s something peaceful about it. Simple. Predictable.

Unlike home.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I freeze for half a second before pulling it out.

James.

My stomach does a small, confusing flip.

James: How’s work tonight?

A smile sneaks onto my face before I can stop it.

He’s… nice.

Not exciting. Not particularly funny. But steady. Polite. Safe. The kind of man my father approved of immediately, which honestly should probably concern me more than it does.

Still.

I type back.

Me: Quiet. Nate is harassing me as usual.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

James: Sounds dangerous. Should I come rescue you?

A soft laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I duck my head, suddenly aware of Nate’s nosy presence somewhere behind me.

Me: I’ll survive. Barely.

I slip my phone back into my pocket, warmth lingering in my chest.

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

Maybe meeting him in person won’t feel like—

“You missed a spot.”

The voice comes from behind me.

Too close.

I jump.

Actually jump.

My heart slams into my throat as I spin around, disinfectant cloth still clutched in my hand.

The man standing there is tall. Broad. Mid-thirties maybe. Dark hair slicked neatly back like he takes himself far too seriously.

Ezekiel.

I recognize him immediately — he comes in a few nights a week. Always late. Always quiet.

Always watching.

His eyes are on me now.

Not in the casual gym-member way.

In the studying way.

“Oh— sorry,” I say quickly, forcing a polite smile as I swipe the cloth over the perfectly clean handle he’s gesturing at.

“It’s fine,” he says slowly.

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t step toward the machine.

Doesn’t look away.

A prickle crawls down the back of my neck.

“You’re new,” he adds.

“I’ve been here a few weeks,” I reply lightly.

His head tilts.

Like he’s fitting puzzle pieces together.

“Have you?” he murmurs.

My grip tightens on the cloth.

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach twist.

“You look… familiar.”

There it is.

My pulse spikes.

Keep it casual. Keep it normal.

“I get that a lot,” I say with a small shrug. “I’ve got one of those faces.”

For a long moment, he just… looks at me.

Then finally — finally — he steps past me toward the machine.

But as he does, he says quietly:

“Hmm. Maybe.”

I don’t breathe again until he walks away.

Across the gym, Nate is watching me with narrowed eyes.

And for the first time since I started this job…

I wonder if coming here was a mistake.