"Owen, you’re leaning too far forward on the rower," Wendy called out, her voice cutting through the rhythmic hum of the machines. She crossed the studio floor, her sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished wood. Owen glanced up, his face flushed from exertion, and adjusted his grip on the handle. "Better?" he asked, panting slightly. She tilted her head, considering. "Marginally."

Wendy was the kind of instructor who commanded attention without trying. Her dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail that swayed as she moved, and her fitted tank top clung to her toned frame, revealing the faint sheen of sweat on her arms. Owen, on the other hand, looked like he’d been dragged here against his will—his gym shorts were a size too big, and his T-shirt had seen better days. Still, he’d been showing up to her class every Tuesday for the past month, and she’d started to notice the way he lingered after to ask questions about form.

"Alright, everyone, let’s pick up the pace!" Wendy clapped her hands, her voice rising above the music. Owen groaned but pushed harder, his muscles straining as he pulled the rower’s handle. She caught his eye and smirked. "Don’t give up on me now, Owen. You’re almost there." He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the studio lights flickered—once, twice—and then went out completely.