Ryan has to go to work.

Yvette’s at her desk when you walk in, perched like a queen in her chair, boots propped up on the edge. Her usual position when she's in boss mode.

She doesn’t look up from her tablet. “Gallagher. Tell me you have something.”

“No luck,” you say, dropping into the chair across from her. “Unless you count learning how to make sourdough from scratch. I feel spiritually fulfilled now.”

“That’s a no,” she says flatly, finally glancing at you.

“Big no,” you confirm.

She sets the tablet down, leans back, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Griggs is useless, and you’re not far behind.”

“Harsh,” you say. “I didn’t see her leave with anyone. That’s data.”

“Useless data,” she mutters.

“Fine. New angle. Rachel spends more time at that spa‑gym than she does at work. You’re joining.”

You blink. “The fancy one with the spa and the eucalyptus towels?”

“That one.”

You let out a low whistle. “That place is five hundred a month. If they don’t let me cancel, you’re covering it.”

Her eyes lift to yours, slow and sharp. “Or you can shut up and enjoy the free cucumber water.”

You lean back, grin spreading. “Spa days on the company dime. I feel very undercover. Should I get a facial? For the job?”

Her smirk is faint but there. “You’d need more than one.”

“Ouch,” you say, hand to your chest. “You know, you could join. Blend in. Make friends. You’d probably get more out of her than I could.”

Yvette snorts. “Do I look like I have time to play tennis and sip overpriced smoothies with bored trophy wives? And I don’t play friend to get intel. That’s your lane.”

“Sure,” you say, casual. “But you’d look better in yoga pants than me.”

That earns you a look. Head tilted, eyes lingering a second too long. “Don’t sell yourself short. I'm sure you'd look great in yoga pants.”

You arch a brow. “Is that encouragement or harassment?”

“Whichever gets you to the gym faster,” she says, already dismissing you with a wave of her hand.

“Fine. But I’m billing you for every massage. And I'm going to be getting a lot of them.”

Yvette grins without looking up. “Try it. I dare you.”

The parking garage smells like rubber and money. Your Bolt looks wildly out of place among the parade of black SUVs and luxury hybrids. You find a spot anyway, grab your bag, and make the short walk to the gym.

Glass walls, clean lines, faint eucalyptus in the air like the whole building’s been sprayed down with spa mist. A wall-sized digital board loops motivational nonsense over images of improbably fit people.

The desk staff smiles like they’re paid to pretend you belong.

You sign up, hand over your card, and wince at the membership fee.

There’s a shop attached. You see racks of overpriced gym gear, a fridge full of protein waters with words like clean and pure printed in minimalist fonts. You pick up a couple pairs of performance shorts, a fitted shirt, and a yoga mat, because apparently you need to look the part before they let you sweat in public.

The attendant eyes you approvingly. You don’t know if it’s for your money or your shoulders. Either way, you accept the compliment wordlessly.

You head to the locker room to change into your new uniform: the vaguely smug athleisure outfit of someone who spends more time foam-rolling than working.

Research from the office said Rachel (the secretary-slash-mistress-slash-subject of your long, dull stakeouts) takes the advanced yoga class at this time. You sign up.

She's already there when you walk in. Ponytail perfect, posture impeccable, the kind of presence that says she’s been doing this long enough to forget anyone else exists.

You’ve never done yoga in your life. But you’re you. How hard can it be?

Turns out: not very.

Advanced yoga sounds like a bad idea until it isn’t. Your body knows how to hold itself, and soon you’re gliding through sequences like you’ve done them a thousand times. You don’t even sweat.

The instructor notices. “New face. Impressive,” she says as she passes.

You give her the polite half‑smile. “Beginner’s luck.”

A few heads turn your way. Quick glances, but not subtle. You ignore them.

Rachel doesn’t. Or rather, she doesn’t acknowledge you at all. She’s front-row focused, every pose perfect, tuned out from the room entirely.

But you see that someone else notices her.

Back row.

Average height, thick build, shaved head. Dressed like everyone else, but his eyes don’t track the instructor.

They track her.

Every time Rachel moves, his gaze is locked on her. Not casual. Not passing. Always on her.

Every. Single. Move.

It’s too focused to be casual.

You hold the pose and watch him out of the corner of your eye, keeping your face neutral.

If Rachel knows she’s being watched, she doesn’t show it.

And if he knows you’re watching him, he doesn’t care.

Not yet, anyway.

When the class eventually ends, you don’t hurry. No one who wants answers hurries.

The guy in the back doesn’t hurry either.

He’s up close now, and yo ucan tell he's bad news. Thick neck. Old scars tracing his knuckles. The kind of forearms you only get from certain type of work. The calluses give him away. He's held a rifle often and recently. Which begs the question: What’s he doing here, barefoot in a room full of people whose biggest daily danger is bad posture?

He rolls his mat with the quiet efficiency. You approach carefully. Not cautious like a mouse. Cautious like one predator eyeing another.

“Hell of a class,” you say, conversational, like two normal men who didn’t just share forty-five minutes of coordinated breathing. “Nice to know I wasn’t the only guy in the room.”

He glances at you. Giving you one sharp, assessing look. Then: “Yeah.”

The sound is less a word and more a period.

“You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes.”

Which is code for: Stop talking.

You let the silence stretch a second longer than is polite, then nod like you’ve learned something (you haven’t) and watch him walk out.

Soldier. Or something adjacent. The question of why he’s here lingers, gnawing, with no good answers.