Chapter — Vaughn POV (continued)
The ride back to the camp is quieter.
Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just… quieter in a way that feels natural after everything that's already been said. The city slowly thins out behind us, lights becoming less crowded, buildings giving way to darker stretches of road that feel more familiar in a way I don't want to think too much about.
Darian drives with one hand again, relaxed, occasionally glancing at the road ahead like nothing about tonight needs to be overanalyzed. He doesn't bring Ryland up again. Doesn't push. Doesn't try to dig deeper.
I'm grateful for that.
By the time we reach the camp gates, the shift is immediate. The structure. The silence. The way everything feels contained again, like stepping back into a system that doesn't allow anything to exist outside of it.
We park. Get out.
The walk back to the dorms is short, boots hitting pavement in a steady rhythm. The building lights are colder here. Brighter, but less welcoming. Everything feels sharper, more defined.
Inside, the hallways are mostly quiet. A few distant voices echo from somewhere further down, but nothing close enough to matter.
When we reach the room, Darian pushes the door open first, stepping inside and tossing his keys onto the small desk near the wall.
He stretches his arms above his head with a low groan. "I swear," he mutters, "if I have to eat that cafeteria food again tomorrow, I'm starting a rebellion."
I let out a small breath through my nose, moving toward my side of the room.
"You'll survive," I say.
"Barely," he shoots back, already dropping onto his bed.
I grab a clean shirt from my bag, pulling it over my head without much thought. The fabric feels cooler against my skin, grounding in a different way than earlier.
"I'm going to the gym," I say.
Darian glances at me from where he's half-sprawled on the bed. "Now?"
"Yeah."
He studies me for a second, then nods once. "Don't overdo it."
"I won't."
He doesn't argue.
That's enough.
The gym is empty.
That's the first thing I notice when I step inside.
No voices. No weights clanking. No movement except the faint hum of the overhead lights and the low vibration of machines left on standby. The space is larger than it looks from the outside—rows of equipment arranged with too much precision, everything placed exactly where it should be.
Mirrors line one wall, reflecting the entire room back at itself. Racks of dumbbells sit in perfect order, weights increasing in size from one end to the other. Benches are spaced evenly. The metal of the equipment catches the light in dull reflections, worn slightly in places where hands have gripped too often.
It smells like metal and rubber. Faint sweat. Clean, but not sterile.
Perfect.
I drop my cap onto the bench near the entrance and roll my shoulders once, letting my body settle into something familiar.
This I understand.
This makes sense.
I start simple.
Stretching first—arms, shoulders, back. Slow, controlled movements, feeling where the tension sits and how it shifts as I move. My muscles are still tight from earlier, not just from training, but from everything else layered on top of it.
Then I move to the dumbbells.
I pick a weight I know I can handle easily. Start with curls. Controlled reps. Up. Pause. Down. Breathing steady. Letting my body fall into rhythm.
One set.
Then another.
Then another.
By the third, my muscles start warming properly, the burn settling in where it should. Familiar. Grounding.
I switch to shoulder presses next. Sitting on the bench, pushing the weights upward slowly, feeling the strain build through my arms and shoulders.
Eight reps.
Pause.
Eight more.
My breathing deepens, controlled but heavier now. The quiet of the gym makes every small sound sharper—the shift of metal, the slight exhale with each push, the faint creak of the bench beneath me.
I move through exercises without rushing.
Back. Arms. Core.
Everything steady.
Everything controlled.
Until I get to the bench press.
The bar rests on the rack above me, empty at first.
I slide onto the bench, adjusting my position, hands wrapping around the bar just to feel the grip. Cold metal against my palms.
I add weight slowly.
One plate on each side first. Something manageable. Something easy.
I lift.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Ten reps. Clean.
I rack it again, breathing a little heavier now.
Then I sit up, staring at the weights for a second longer than necessary.
And then I add more.
Another plate.
Heavier now.
I lie back again, adjusting my grip, grounding my feet firmly against the floor.
Lift.
The weight comes off the rack with effort this time.
Down.
My arms strain slightly more as I lower it.
Up.
Slower.
I push through it anyway.
Eight reps.
Then six.
Then four.
By the last one, my arms are shaking slightly, but I manage to rack it again.
I should stop there.
I know I should.
But I don't.
I sit up again, breathing heavier now, chest rising and falling faster as I stare at the bar.
And then I add more weight.
Too much.
I know it before I even lie back down.
But I do it anyway.
I grip the bar again, tighter this time, palms slightly damp now. My arms are already tired. My muscles already strained.
Still.
I lift.
The bar comes off the rack slower this time. Heavier. Noticeably heavier.
I lower it carefully.
Too carefully.
Because the moment it reaches my chest—
I know.
I push.
Nothing.
My arms don't respond the way they should.
I try again, forcing the movement, but the bar barely shifts.
My breath catches slightly.
I push harder.
My arms shake.
The weight doesn't move.
It presses down harder instead.
My chest tightens under it. My grip slips slightly as my strength starts to give out faster than I expected.
Shit.
I try again—one last push—
Nothing.
The bar dips lower.
Too close.
My breath stutters, chest tightening as the weight threatens to pin me completely.
And then—
It lifts.
Suddenly.
Not from me.
The pressure disappears in an instant, the bar rising off my chest like it weighs nothing at all.
I suck in a sharp breath as the weight is pulled up and racked above me with a solid metallic click.
For a second, I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, chest rising too fast, arms still trembling from the strain.
Then I turn my head.
And he's there.
Standing right next to the bench.
Close enough that I hadn't heard him come in.
Close enough that if I hadn't opened my eyes when I did, I would've never seen him before he stepped in.
Ryland.
Standing at the head of the bench, one hand still loosely resting on the bar like he didn't just stop it from crushing me.
His expression is calm.
Too calm.
Like none of that meant anything.
Like he expected it.
Like he was waiting for it.
And for a second—
I don't say anything.
Because I don't know what the hell he's doing here.