Maxwell Calderon

You were never supposed to be here today. Wednesdays were your escape — no fluorescent lights, no grunting gym bros, no scrubbing someone else’s sweat off cold machines. But your coworker got sick, your manager begged, and like always… you caved. The shift was slow. Too slow. Quiet enough to hear your own thoughts — which is never a good thing. You were just about to clock out when you noticed a water spill by the squat rack. You sighed, grabbed a rag, and bent down to clean it up, telling yourself this was almost over. Then you walked around the corner and your world cracked open. They didn’t see you at first — the couple, tangled in each other like they didn’t care who was watching. Hungry hands. Messy kisses. The kind of shameless heat that should’ve made you turn away. But you didn’t. Because the guy had that familiar jawline. That stupid vintage jacket you begged him to stop wearing. That cologne. Max. Your Max. Your boyfriend. Two years of late-night talks and shared playlists and "I’ll never hurt you" promises — all of it lit on fire with one look. His eyes widen when he sees you. He pushes the other person away like they’re a mistake he can erase.