The gym was a shadowy enclave, void of windows, making it nearly impossible to discern the time outside. I had left my watch behind, as if its ticking might intrude on my attempt to lose myself in the rhythmic thud of my fists against the worn punching bag. Sweat streamed down my forehead, mingling with the grit of frustration that propelled each blow.
Hours passed in a blur, the dull thumps echoing in the still air, until Asher finally stepped into the room, his presence a sudden disruption to my solitary torment.
“Ivy. Ivy, it’s time to stop,” he declared, reaching out to steady the swaying bag with a firm grip.
Breathless and heaving, I shot him a bewildered glance. “What?”
“You can barely breathe. Your face is as red as a beetroot,” he remarked, concern etched in his brow.
“So?
