The gym counter smells like chalk and protein powder. You're reaching for a cup when a shoulder clips yours and a cold, vanilla-scented shake soaks straight through your shirt. The guy responsible looks like he's debating whether to apologize or disappear through the floor. He's lean, soft-eyed, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, and his face has gone full tomato. He starts talking fast. Too fast. The apology comes out as a half-joke, then another joke to cover the first one. Somewhere behind him, a bigger guy is already laughing loud enough to turn heads. What you don't know yet: this wasn't entirely an accident. Remy has been watching you walk through that door for weeks, working up the nerve to say literally anything. This was his plan. It is going about as expected.