Rylee

I’d prepared myself for today as much as I could. I stayed up late last night watching YouTube videos, studying the movements of fitness influencers, even scribbling little notes. I was ready.

Today was my first day at the gym. It wasn’t because I was overweight—far from it. I just felt my stamina was weak. As an art student I haul watercolor sets, canvases, brushes, and every kind of drawing tool almost every day. My body needed extra strength if I wanted to keep painting.

My eyes scanned for the machine I’d seen in the videos. Lateral raise. Okay, start there.

I stepped closer. But when I looked, the handle was set too high for me. Huh, it felt different from what I’d seen on YouTube. Still, I reached for it. At 155 cm I wasn’t exactly short, right? But my tiptoes weren’t cutting it. I stretched and stretched until, out of nowhere, a strong hand easily lowered the bar and handed it to me.

“Um, sorry. I think it’s usually not this high…” I tried to make small talk with a smile. As if I’d been a regular at the gym forever—Rylee, chill.

The man only replied flatly, “Some idiot forgot to put the chain on.”

Then he walked away. Cold as ice.

“Thanks!” I called a little louder since he was already heading toward the chest-press machine. Of course he was.

I set up with the lightest weights. It still felt ridiculously heavy. Was I really that weak? I hopped around to a few other machines, following the notes from the tutorials I’d watched the night before.

An hour later my arms felt like they didn’t belong to me anymore. Everything ached. That was enough for today.

On my way to the locker room I passed a full-length mirror by the studio room. Perfect. I stopped for a quick selfie. A few takes—finding my angle—until I caught the reflection of the man from before, apparently trying to suppress a smile. What? He was mocking me? Rude! I just squinted at him before ducking into the bathroom.

By eight p.m. I left the gym wrecked, every muscle burned out, but my stomach growled in protest after I’d burned all my energy. I hit a food stall and bought a burrito. The thing was—seriously—bigger than my hand.

I walked home chewing the warm burrito. Even with aching muscles, the night felt perfect.

\~\~\~

The next day, in Professor Vaughn’s art class. As usual, we were going to paint a model. The models who’d shown up so far had been… pretty interesting. Other students, the campus security guard, a flower vendor with a full bouquet, even a dog who clearly couldn’t hold still for two whole hours. Last week it was a fat man with a big belly who had to hold a chicken drumstick—two hours of staring at his own food. Poor guy… but honestly, it was hilarious.

“I hope today, the model is… something normal,” Hannah whispered beside me.

“Maybe a hot guy,” I said, just throwing it out there.

As if the universe had a sense of humor, a small ripple of applause came from the door. Professor Vaughn walked in—followed by a tall, broad-shouldered, good looking man. Hot even

I froze.

Of course.

The cold guy from the gym last night. What a small world.

Professor Vaughn stood in the center of the room, surrounded by us students. “Today our model is Henry. Henry used to play rugby professionally and now focuses on modeling. Let’s see how you capture him. Go ahead and start.”

Henry stepped into the middle. He wore an oversized sweater and relaxed jeans.

“Look at his arms, Rylee. That sweater looks like it’s about to burst—so tight,” Hannah breathed, impressed.

I snorted. “That’s an oversized sweater, Han.” It was huge—how could she already be seeing muscles?

But I glanced back at Henry. He set his pose: left hand behind his neck, right hand tugging slightly at the hem of his sweater. His eyes—dark gray—were staring straight at… me.

My chest tightened. Was he doing that on purpose? Or just coincidence? We’d only met for a moment last night—why did he stare at me like I was stealing his protein bar or something?

“Relax, Rylee,” Hannah nudged me. “We all know he’s hot.”

I exhaled and forced myself to calm down. Okay, he’s posing. Focus on the canvas. I began to draw—line by line, detail by detail. Sharp jaw, brown hair, broad shoulders. No wonder he was a model.

After thirty minutes I noticed him looking a little tired holding the pose. He stretched briefly, then returned to it. Two hours like this? Way harder than my gym session last night.

My painting was almost finished. It just needed my trademark touch: bright colors to bring it to life.

“Wow, great detail, Rylee. Those colors are your signature,” Professor Vaughn praised, patting my shoulder.

I gave a small smile. But my eyes kept darting to Henry. He remained motionless, still cool, still… staring in my direction.

\~\~\~

Henry

Honestly, I didn’t want to come today. But I’d promised Winona, my manager, I’d model at Lakewood University’s art class. Whatever Professor Vaughn promised her, Winona pushed hard enough that I couldn’t say no.

I walked through the hall without paying attention to students’ stares. Once I was in the center of the room I scanned the faces, and my gaze landed on her.

The girl from the gym last night.

The one who’d been testing every machine every five minutes, then taking selfies in the mirror like she’d just finished an intense workout.

I clenched back a smile.

For some reason there was a gravity pulling me toward her. As I began to pose my eyes drifted to her on their own.

Stay calm. No expression.

I caught her flustered for a second, then steadying herself. When she bent toward her canvas, pencil poised—focused—

She felt so different from the bubbly girl I’d seen yesterday.

\~\~\~

Content warning: this section contains sensitive material involving sexual violence. Read only if you’re comfortable.

Rylee

When class ended, everyone was still talking about the same thing: the handsome Henry who’d modeled today.

Okay, he was attractive. But what made me even happier was that my painting got an A. I kept staring at the number on the paper, as if it might disappear.

“Earth to Rylee,” Hannah waved her hand in front of my face. “Were you smiling at Henry’s portrait?”

“No! I’m smiling at this.” I showed her the grade.

“Yeah, yeah… of course you got an A. Henry’s been staring at you all this time.”

My face warmed. “That was just a coincidence.”

We laughed softly as we walked down the hall toward the cafeteria.

Suddenly Professor Vaughn stopped me.

“Rylee Andrews. Any plans this afternoon?”

“Just the gym at six, Professor.”

“Good. After that, can you help me sort some paintings? A few students from other classes will be coming by.”

I nodded.

“Sometimes I’m jealous of you, Rylee,” Hannah whispered after he left. “Your family supports your art school, your parents are still together, and you’re Professor Vaughn’s favorite. Your life is almost perfect.”

I chuckled. “Not that perfect, Han. I’ve never been in love. For me… my dad, Stephen Andrews, can’t be replaced.”

Hannah scoffed. “That’s your problem. Your standards are too high.”

\~\~\~

I got to the gym at five, early on purpose so I wouldn’t be out too late getting to Professor Vaughn’s studio. I’d settled into my routine; today was leg day. Sweat poured down, my legs trembled, but there was a quiet satisfaction—I felt stronger than before.

My eyes scanned for a free machine I could use—not looking for Henry, not at all.

But as if the universe had other plans, Henry walked in a few minutes later carrying a big duffel bag.

I worked up the nerve to go over to him.

“Hi—we’ve run into each other a few times but never actually met. I’m Rylee. Rylee Andrews.” I said, holding out my hand.

He looked at it for a few seconds, then gave a brief shake. “Henry. Henry Collins.”

“So… what are you training for today?”

“Shoulders. Back.”

“You train every day?”

“Yes.”

“Are you really a model?”

“Yes.”

His answers were short. I sighed.

“All right then, sir. Please go back to your world. Sorry for interrupting you”

I turned away and headed for the locker room.

\~\~\~

My legs were still wobbly after leg day as I walked back to campus. I arrived at Professor Vaughn’s room earlier than I expected. It was quiet. Maybe i was too early because no one’s here.

I was about to leave when I found Professor Vaughn standing behind me.

“You came early,” he said.

“Yes, Professor. I thought we could finish it faster.”

He nodded and pointed to the stack of paintings. “Start tidying from that side.”

I began to work. But for some reason a bad feeling sat heavy on my chest. Not just from leg day—something else. Unease.

Suddenly a hand tapped my shoulder from behind.

“Why are you trembling like that, Rylee?” His voice was too close.

I froze.

“I love the smell of a woman after she works out… it’s my favorite, sweaty, delicious” he murmured.

I wanted to scream, but his hand clamped over my mouth roughly.

“If you scream, I’ll make sure you never pass my class. You’ll keep repeating it, and you’ll keep running into me. Fun, isn’t it?” His laugh was cold, cutting.

Tears slipped out before I could stop them. My body went rigid, trapped.

All I could do was hope—someone, anyone—would come to help.

My sobs broke out in silence. I tried to move, but my limbs stiffened while his body pinned me down the floor. His laughter echoed in my ears, the room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in with no escape.

Then everything began to blur.

The studio lights felt too bright, the sounds too loud, my breath caught.

Dark.

And there, I truly felt helpless.

\~\~\~

I lay weak on the studio floor. My shirt was torn, my hair tangled across my tear-streaked face. His breath at my ear felt like a threat.

“If you dare report me, or tell anyone about this, I swear, Rylee. You’ll keep running into me. Until finally you give up and kneel before me.”

I didn’t dare look at him. My body was frozen, my eyes full of tears. Then, suddenly, his hand forced my chin up roughly so I had to meet his face.

“So be a good girl. Tell anyone, and I’ll find you—again and again—until you learn your place.” He chuckled softly before stepping out.

He left me alone. Silence swallowed the room—only my fragile breathing and the echo of his footsteps fading away.

For a long while I just sat there, my body and mind numb. Slowly I stood, trying to straighten my ripped clothes, trying to stitch together the pieces of my shattered dignity. Then I walked without direction into the cold night.

Was this the end of my life? On that empty street, with my body and my shame making everything feel meaningless, the world felt as if it were collapsing around me.

\~\~\~

Henry

Her footsteps had been light; that small laugh that used to tease me hovered in my head.

“Henry, you can beat that guy, right?” she taunted in a mischievous tone.

Irina Collins. My sister.

Three years ago she was taken from me—snatched by a brutal man. He still lived. He should have died. I once promised myself: if I ever found him, I wouldn’t stop until he stopped breathing. I don’t care if I go to prison for it. But the world was never that simple.

Now, again, I saw something that reminded me of her. Not the same face. Not the same voice. But that bright spirit—the way she moved, the way she laughed like a little light in a room this big. Rylee Andrews. From the first time I saw her, a part of my past trembled at the sight of her. She unsettled me.

I was spending more time than usual at the gym. My sessions ran long—long enough for night to thicken outside the windows. When I finally stepped out, my original plan was to run an errand and head home. The streets were empty. Streetlights stood in a row like silent sentinels.

Then I saw her.

Rylee. Still wearing the same clothes she’d left the gym in—only now parts were shoved and torn, her hair messy, her eyes hollow, no longer reflecting any light. She walked slowly, like someone moving through a fog. She passed me without recognizing me. My chest tightened.

I called her name, quietly, holding my breath. “Rylee.”

She didn’t turn.

I reached for the sleeve of her jacket—just to stop her. Immediately she leapt back and screamed, her face pure terror. The sound cut through me.

Something was terribly wrong. My instincts wouldn’t accept excuses. I let go of the rough grip and replaced it with a firmer, steadier hold, trying to calm her. “Hey—breathe. I’m Henry. Calm down, I’m here.”

She froze; her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, then closed again. There was confusion, fear, and something else—an old pain so familiar it constricted my chest. She wasn’t Irina, but the ghost of that past clung to every movement.

I guided her to the nearest bench and called paramedics. While we waited I took a heavy jacket from my duffel and draped it over her shoulders. I didn’t touch her—not after that reaction. But I wouldn’t leave her alone. I would not let her become like Irina.

Fifteen minutes later the paramedics arrived. They spoke gently, checked her physical and emotional state professionally. One of them glanced at me, then at Rylee. “We recommend taking her to the hospital for further checks,” he said softly. “There are crisis services that can help, and it’s important to make sure there aren’t any injuries.”

Rylee bit her lip; she was shivering for reasons beyond the cold. “No,” she said in a thin voice. “I don’t want… the hospital.” She refused, her voice hoarse. The paramedics explained the process—what they’d do, why it mattered, and that she had the right to refuse. They offered a refusal form. With trembling breath, Rylee also refused to sign. That was her choice. Her right.

Part of me wanted to force her, to take her to the ER even if she said no. But something in her eyes made me pull back. It reminded me that helping wasn’t about seizing control from someone in crisis. Helping meant offering choices, and standing with them no matter what they chose.

“I can take you somewhere safe,” I finally said, my voice rough from held-back emotion. “There’s a campus clinic open late, or I can walk you to your apartment—whichever you prefer, I’ll go with you. But you won’t be alone, okay?”

She looked at me for a long moment. Hesitation, fear, and then a small, faint nod. “Apartment,” she said at last. Her voice was almost gone.

The paramedics gave extra blankets and explained again how to contact campus crisis services if she changed her mind. They recorded her refusal for care on the paperwork—formalities that left me partly relieved and partly angry at a system that demanded box-checking when all I wanted was something simple: to hold her and make sure she was safe.

I helped her to her feet—just a little support at her back—and we walked into the quiet night. The cold air slapped my face, waking up the old anger I’d kept for the man who’d taken Irina. But tonight was not the time. Tonight I had another promise: to make sure the girl who reminded me of her didn’t disappear into the night alone.

\~\~\~

All the way to her apartment she barely spoke. Every so often she pointed the way—nothing more. I offered to come inside and wait in the hallway until she calmed down, but she refused outright. I could only watch her small steps fade away as the apartment door shut firmly behind her.

I couldn’t just stand there. I called Winona right away—she was the one who’d set me up to model for Professor Vaughn yesterday, and she had good contacts at Lakewood University.

“What’s going on this late?” she asked, breath quick over the phone.

“Winona… I found a girl near the studio. She was shaken, her clothes torn. Paramedics came but she refused to go. I walked her home, but she wouldn’t let me come in. I don’t want to just sit in the car. Where should I report this? What should I do now?” My voice was flat but full of desperation.

On the other end, Winona paused, then gave firm, practical instructions. “Report it to Campus Security first, Henry. They handle emergencies on campus. After that, contact the Title IX coordinator—they handle sexual-assault cases formally. If she changes her mind, direct her to campus health services or the hospital. But remember, if the victim refuses, don’t force it. Record the time, location, condition, and any witnesses. That documentation is important.”

Her words felt like a map. I stared at the dark apartment door in front of me and took a long breath. Those instructions gave me a way to act without taking away Rylee’s choices. “Okay. I’ll call security now,” I answered. My voice sounded professional—the only thing I could manage besides waiting outside, as she had asked.

Sitting in my car while the call connected, old memories surged—the pain cut deep. But tonight I forced myself not to act recklessly. I would be a witness. I would take notes. I would stay by her side, as far as she wanted me to.

Security finally picked up. I explained the studio location, the time, and that the victim had refused treatment but someone was willing to wait. They sent a patrol to file an initial report and check the scene. After I hung up I sat a while longer, staring at the streetlight and the dark apartment door.

There was an unnamed anger in my chest—anger at whoever hurt her, anger at a system that’s often unfair. I promised myself: tonight, I would not leave her alone.