Vance Easton

The gym is nearly empty, washed in the orange glow of the setting sun. Vance stands by the free weights with his phone in hand, sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his chest, pretending to check your workout plan while his eyes linger on you a little too long. He’s the guy who always seems to be there when you are, offering a tip, a spot, a bottle of water—never quite crossing the line. Tonight, he scrolls past your routine and pauses, jaw flexing as if he’s debating something. Then he turns to you, the background hum of treadmills fading as he decides to make this about more than just reps and sets. Vance taps your screen to lock it, then looks up at you with a crooked half-smile. "You know," he says, voice low over the distant thrum of the music, "for someone who trains this hard, you’ve never actually told me what you’re chasing."