Ayub hit the gym straight from the office, jaw clenched and shoulders still coiled with tension. Lamija’s voice echoed in his head like a song he couldn’t shut off—sharp, amused, and absolutely infuriating.
He didn’t know what it was about her.
Scratch that—he knew exactly what it was.
She was brilliant. Quick. Merciless in her logic. Every conversation felt like stepping into a sparring ring barefoot and blindfolded. She wasn’t cruel—not intentionally—but she was competitive. And lately, with him, she was playful.
Which somehow made it worse.
Today’s meeting had turned into a battlefield over bullet points and border control workflows. Emir had looked like he was clinging to the edge of sanity, praying one of them would blink first.
Lamija hadn’t. She never did.
Ayub had tried to keep it professional. Tried to match her wit. He’d even flirted a little—just to see if he could catch her off guard. But by the end of it, he was the one flushed and fuming, redoing slides while she walked out calm and smug.
She always won.
He dropped his bag beside the squat rack. “I swear she argues just to see me sweat,” he muttered.
Imran glanced up from loading plates, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re just mad you didn’t win this round.”
“I haven’t won any round.”
“It’s been one day and she’s already rearranged your mental furniture.”
Ayub grunted and grabbed a resistance band, trying to shake her out of his head. It didn’t work. Even his muscles remembered the way her fingers had flicked the edge of the printed report earlier—smirking like she knew exactly how far she could push before he snapped.
She did know. That was the problem.
Halfway through his second warm-up set, the door creaked open.
Talha walked in, all stone and silence. Black compression shirt, headphones slung around his neck, tape already wrapped around his knuckles. His face was unreadable—but his presence was loud.
He didn’t spare them a glance, just went straight into the locker room. Five minutes later, he returned and, without a word, began loading plates beside them.
Imran shot him a sidelong glance. “So... are we pretending this morning didn’t happen or—?”
“Leg day,” Talha said flatly.
Ayub smirked. “Translation: shut up and lift.”
And so they did.
Set after set, the conversation dissolved into grunts and curses—until a girl in lavender leggings stopped beside Talha. She smiled like she’d been working up the courage all week.
“Hi,” she said. “Sorry to bother you—do you think you could spot me for a set? You really look like you know what you’re doing.”
Talha didn’t even blink. “No.”
She blinked for him. “Oh. Well, maybe after? We could grab coffee or—”
“Find someone else.”
Undeterred, she reached out, fingers brushing his arm. “Come on. Just one set. I’ve never really—”
“Back. Off.”
His tone was a scalpel. Sharp. Cold.
The girl stepped back instantly, face flushing. Without another word, she turned and walked away, avoiding eye contact.
Imran muttered, “That poor girl’s gonna need therapy.”
Ayub smirked. “We said you should jump into bed with strangers, not that you should be an asshole to them.”
“She should’ve left after the first no,” Talha said, grabbing another plate.
“She touched your arm,” Imran said. “You looked like she spit on you.”
Talha just shrugged. “Didn’t ask to be touched.”
They moved on to deadlifts.
Ayub grunted through his final rep, then dropped the bar. “By the way, I got moved.”
Talha looked over, brow raised. “To where?”
“To Lamija’s team.”
Talha froze, hand halfway to his towel. “You’re working with Lamija?”
“Since this morning.”
Imran grinned. “It’s been the highlight of my year.”
Talha squinted. “And you’re still alive?”
“Barely.”
“She let you speak?”
Ayub gave him a look. “I speak just fine.”
“Sure,” Talha muttered. “Once your jaw’s done clenching.”
“Our boy held his own,” Imran added. “He even flirted with her. She said he was hot.”
“She did not say that,” Ayub snapped.
“She implied it,” Imran said.
Talha shook his head. “You’re not ready for her.”
“I’m managing.”
“You’re unraveling.”
Ayub dropped to the floor with a groan and grabbed his water bottle. “You two are making this worse.”
“You’re doomed,” Talha said.
They all laughed, a familiar ease settling in.
Ayub’s phone buzzed.
Jasmina:9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhExgxaCH67
Hey! Sorry again. Slides 4 and 6 still look weird—maybe old versions? Also, I think the chart on 9 is missing? Don’t hate me!
Ayub let out a strangled sound.
Imran leaned in. “Oh, that’s gonna be bad.”
“She’s going to kill me.”
“Can I come to the meeting?” Imran asked. “I’ll bring popcorn.”
“You’re all heart.”
As they cooled down, the gym emptied, lights dimming as closing time approached.
“Alright,” Imran said, grabbing his hoodie, “I’m out. Promised Mama I’d be home before Isha.”
“Did she threaten you?” Talha asked.
“No. She guilted me. Which is worse.”
Talha nodded toward the door. “I’ve gotta pick up Tarik. He’s waiting at that burger joint again.”
“Kid lives there,” Ayub said. “He’s old enough to walk home, you know.”
Talha didn’t respond to that.
They exchanged salams, the ache in their bodies grounding them like weights that stayed even after the iron was gone.
As they stepped into the Sarajevo night, the cool air kissed their sweat-warmed skin. City lights flickered through the fog like fireflies. The streets hummed with life—quiet and slow and old.
Imran peeled off first, waving as he headed for his car.
Talha turned in the opposite direction, posture looser now, as if the workout had pulled some of the fire out of him.
Ayub stood alone for a beat longer, the buzz of the day settling beneath the ache in his legs. He opened Lamija’s message.
A forwarded email. A line of suggestions.
Do you want to review together at 8? Or are you still scared of me?
He didn’t reply.
But he smiled.
Then he turned, and walked into the night.
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