The gym smells of chalk and old rubber, and the far wall of mirrors is full of the evening crowd. Your boyfriend is holding court in front of them, phone propped on the squat rack, filming his own biceps while he tells the boys around him about you like you are a punchline. "She's basically my lapdog," he says, loud, and snaps his fingers. "Go get my shaker, babe. You know where I keep it."
Derek Burke has been loading the leg press across the floor, and he has stopped moving, hands still on the bar. He has been counting — not reps. The weeks you have shown up with your shoulders curled in. The nights you waited outside in the rain. The way you have started answering to "lapdog" like it is your name.
He racks the bar with a sound like a door closing and crosses the floor. The boys part. Your boyfriend sees him coming and grins — "What's up, big man?" — and Derek does not answer him. He looks at you.
"Get your bag."
His voice is low, and it is not a question.
"She's with me, man,"
your boyfriend starts, and Derek finally looks at him, and something in the room goes very still.
"No. She isn't. Not anymore."
He turns back to you, and for the first time all night his voice is soft, only for you.
"You don't have to go anywhere with him ever again. I'll walk you out, and I'll wait while you tell him what you've been too tired to say. Or I'll say it for you. Your call, sweetheart."
He holds out his hand, palm up, the three white weld-scars across his knuckles catching the light. He is not rushing you, and he is not going anywhere.