x
The gym smelled like iron, sweat, and regret.
It was dimly lit the way I liked it—none of that clinical brightness from the upscale chains, just raw steel, concrete walls, and a dozen different ways to break yourself if you weren’t paying attention.
Old-school. Unforgiving. Like Sarajevo itself.
Mornings were better. Before the influencers, the Bluetooth speakers, and the shaky-form nobodies trying to film a set like it was strategy.
But this was Talha’s only available slot. And even now—he was late.
Ayub was already mid-set and visibly at war with the universe, driving through a brutal round of Bulgarian split squats.
No music, no mirror checks. Just pain and precision.
His jaw was tight. His grip—angry.
Veins tracked down his forearms like wiring, every rep a silent argument he refused to lose.
I dropped onto the bench beside him and laced my shoes tighter, rolling my shoulders once to loosen the tension.
I was in black joggers and a graphite compression shirt—clean lines, perfect fit. The logo on my sleeve caught the low light: Begović Industries.
I didn’t wear it for show. It was a reminder. In this city, my name meant something.
I stood and eased into a round of bodyweight lunges to wake up my legs.
The stretch burned in just the right way. I welcomed it.
This place, this routine—it was one of the few things that kept my head clear.
Not the boardroom. Not the office.
This.
I glanced over at Ayub. He hadn't spoken. Just grit and repetition.
I respected that.
Talha had five minutes before I started without him.
Ayub and I hadn’t spoken since this morning at the border.
Not really.
He'd walked out of Lamija’s office with tension in his shoulders like steel cables, jaw clenched tight, and then flicked me off like we were sixteen again.
Still, he was here.
Which meant the meeting couldn’t have gone entirely sideways.
We moved through a few sets in silence, the only sound the rhythmic clink of metal and the low hum of ventilation.
I watched him rack his dumbbells with a little too much force. The kind of controlled aggression that said everything he wouldn’t say out loud.
I finally broke the silence.
“You all right?”
He didn’t look over. “Define ‘all right.’”
“You still have a job?”
“Unfortunately.”
I paused, glanced his way. “You had your meeting with Lamija?”
He racked his barbell with unnecessary force. The clang echoed.
“Oh yeah,” he muttered. “We bonded. Real heart-to-heart stuff.”
I raised a brow. “That bad?”
“She called me a clown.”
I blinked. “That escalated fast.”
“She also accused me of slapping fresh numbers on old logic models like I was in some kind of kindergarten art class.”
I tried not to laugh. Wallahi, I tried.
Failed.
A low chuckle escaped before I could stop it.
“Okay. That’s… brutal. What’d you do to piss her off?”
Ayub grabbed his towel off the bench, dragged it across his face, and threw it over his shoulder.
“A shipment forecast,” he muttered. “Used the shortcut you showed me. The GPS-based baseline.”
I winced. “Ah. Yeah. She hates that model.”
He turned toward me slowly. Deadpan.
“Thanks for the early warning.”
“I didn’t know you were gonna use it with her,” I said, still grinning. “She’s been trying to kill that thing for months.”
“She told me it had the structural integrity of a wet napkin.”
I laughed again, softer this time. “That sounds like her.”
“She also told me I was lazy.”
“Oof.” I rubbed a hand over my face, still chuckling. “Welcome to Lamija’s team.”
Ayub grabbed his water bottle. “She’s making me lead the client meeting tomorrow. Solo. No notes. No slides. No support.”
I straightened. “Wait—she’s not presenting?”
“Nope. Apparently I’m no longer allowed to whisper behind glass.”
I watched him for a moment.
His arms were folded tight across his chest, shoulders still tense. He looked like he’d run hill sprints, not finished hack squats. Jaw locked. Breathing measured—but strained.
“You mad because she’s wrong,” I said, “or because she’s right?”
He didn’t answer.
The gym door creaked open.
Talha walked in—all stone and silence. He didn’t offer a salaam, just a storm trailing chalk and whatever he'd been fighting off in his own head.
His face was unreadable, but his presence was loud.
He didn’t look at us.
No nod. No grunt.
Just walked past like we weren’t there, disappearing into the locker room, still dragging tension behind him like a shadow.
Five minutes later, he was back—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes forward. No words. Just started wrapping his knees and loading plates like he was alone in the building.
I glanced at him. “So… are we pretending this morning didn’t happen, or—?”
Talha didn’t look at me.
“L-leg day,” he said flatly.
The stutter was clipped and low, like he barely let himself say it.
Ayub smirked. “Translation: shut up and lift.”
And we did.
We worked in silence for a while—low reps, heavy sets. Leg presses. Romanian deadlifts. The kind of work that left your thighs twitching and your soul reconsidering its attachment to your body.
Ayub was locked in—headphones in, jaw tight, moving like he was trying to lift Lamija’s expectations off the floor with every rep.
Talha moved differently. Controlled. Precise. The kind of quiet that wasn’t silence so much as pressure—like a fight he was keeping inside his ribs.
Me? I’d never been good with silence.
Especially not when someone made it that easy to mess with.
We were both re-racking our barbells when I glanced between them and said, “So… Talha, did you hear Ayub got promoted this morning? Official title: Court Jester.”
Talha blinked, deadpan. “C-come again?”
Ayub didn’t look up. “Don’t.”
I ignored him, grinning. “Lamija called him a clown. Direct quote.”
Talha leaned against the leg press, eyebrows rising, interest immediately piqued. “Wh-what the hell d-did you d-do?”
Ayub yanked out one earbud. “Used a forecast model Imran gave me. The shortcut ratios.”
Talha turned to me slowly, face unreadable. “You g-gave him a m-model La-mija h-hates?”
“I didn’t assign it to him,” I said, hands raised in mock defense. “It’s a classic. Very retro. Like vinyl.”
“She said it had the structural integrity of a wet napkin,” Ayub muttered, wiping sweat from his face.
Talha snorted. “O-okay, but th-that’s… kind of p-poetic.”
“Oh, it got better,” I said. “She also called him lazy.”
Ayub slung the towel over his shoulder, deadpan. “Thank you, Imran, for your continued emotional support during this deeply painful chapter of my professional life.”
Talha choked on a laugh. “D-damn. S-she went s-stra-ight f-for the j-jugular.”
“She told me I’m leading the client meeting tomorrow,” Ayub said, grabbing his water bottle. “No notes. No slides. Just me. Speaking. Alone.”
Talha raised a brow. “S-she t-trust you that m-much? Or is th-this a p-punish-ment?”
Ayub shrugged. “Probably both.”
I grinned. “She basically lit him on fire and said, ‘Dance.’”
Ayub glanced between us. “Can one of you please shut up and spot me?”
Talha moved to the bench, hands already up. “T-two d-days with La-mija and you’re s-s-spiraling, man. Sounds p-painful.”
Ayub dropped onto the bench, exhaling. “Maybe I like the pain. Stockholm Syndrome, but make it corporate.”
“You’d be surprised how many of us are stuck in that loop,” I said cheerfully.
“Yeah,” Ayub muttered. “You’re the ringleader.”
“I prefer the term architect of growth,” I offered.
He gave me a long look. “You’re an asshole.”
I smiled wider. “I try.”
Talha ignored us and focused on his reps. His movements were clean, precise—but tense. Controlled like a man who needed to keep moving just to stay steady. Every lift looked like it hurt, but not physically.
More like he was working out something he didn’t want to name.
Ayub watched him for a second, then looked away, jaw tight.
“She’s not trying to break you,” I said eventually.
“She doesn’t have to try,” he muttered.
“You know she pushes the ones she sees potential in.”
“Then she must think I’m a damn gold mine.”
Talha tossed his towel over his shoulder and dropped onto the bench beside me. His breathing was steady, shoulders still tense.
“Sh-she’s n-not wrong, t-though,” he said quietly.
Ayub gave him a look. “What, you’re on her side now?”
“I’m n-not on a-any-one’s side,” Talha said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I kn-know her. If s-she th-thought you were w-weak, she’d ig-ignore you. She’d n-never waste h-her time.”
Ayub snorted. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
Talha shrugged. “N-no. It’s sup-posed to l-light a f-fire un-der your a-ass.”
Ayub didn’t answer. He grabbed the bar again and kept lifting—same clean form, but slower now.
Like he was thinking about it.
“She wants the man who rerouted warehouse output in under six hours,” I said, voice low. “The one who solved Ploče without asking for permission. That was one of the worst weeks we’ve had in three years—and you handled it like it was nothing.”
Ayub didn’t say anything, but I saw the tension in his jaw.
I leaned forward. “You were the best guy I ever had on my team.”
His eyes flicked up.
Ayub’s voice was quieter this time. “And if I crash?”
Talha didn’t even pause.
“Th-then you c-crash,” he said. “B-but you d-do it l-loud.”
We finished the workout in near silence.
The clang of metal. The rhythm of breath. The quiet understanding that none of us were just training bodies—we were holding ourselves together.
Ayub’s phone buzzed. He checked it and exhaled sharply.
“Lamija wants final projections before end of day.”
“Of c-course sh-she does,” Talha muttered. “D-did you th-think the k-knives s-stopped flying af-after hours?”
Ayub dragged his towel across the back of his neck, still catching his breath. “She wants me to come in early tomorrow. Review it with her before the meeting.”
I raised a brow. “So she ripped you to shreds today… and now she wants to help put you back together?”
Talha chuckled from the bench, wiping his face with his towel. “C-corporate af-aftercare.”
I groaned. “Bro. She’s my sister.”
Talha laughed deeper this time, smug. “H-hey—I didn’t sa-y it. I j-just… t-translated it.”
Ayub, still catching his breath, didn’t miss a beat. “Should I bring a weighted blanket and juice boxes to the meeting? Or just let her… step on my neck a little?”
I closed my eyes. Just for a second. Praying for strength.
I turned slowly. “Ayub.”
“Astaghfirullah,” he mumbled under his breath, like he was only just hearing himself.
Talha wheezed.
Ayub rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Maybe that one went a little far.”
Talha was still fighting for breath.
I looked at Ayub, deadpan. “I’m telling her you said that.”
Ayub froze. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m absolutely telling her.”
“Imran—please.”
Talha slid halfway to the floor, laughing so hard he nearly hit the dumbbell rack.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ayub said quickly. “It was a metaphor. A compliment. Power dynamics!”
“I’m texting her right now.”
Ayub lunged. “Give me that phone.”
Talha was breathless. “H-he said s-step on my n-neck, bro—”
“I take it back!” Ayub shouted. “I take everything back!”
We were finished fifteen minutes later and headed to the lot together, steps slower now, the air cooling with that late Sarajevo hush—smoke from ćevapi stands drifting up the hills, streetlights blinking awake.
The sky above us was that deep gold bruise before night, like the city had been hit but wasn’t down yet.
At the curb, we peeled off.
Ayub walked to his sleek, silver Audi—doors unlocking with a quiet blink, interior spotless. He tossed his gym bag in the back, jacket folded neatly over the seat.
Everything about him—measured. Composed. The kind of man who built order from chaos because he couldn’t afford to be anything else.
Talha moved in the opposite direction—toward his black-on-black Jeep, dust and grit clinging to the tires like they belonged there. Hoodie up. Wrists still red from wraps. His whole presence said don’t ask, don’t follow.
He didn’t carry himself like he was going home.
He carried himself like he was going back into the fight.
I stood for a moment, keys in hand, watching them fade into the golden dark. May Allah guard them, I thought, because someone had to.
Both of them my brothers, in different ways. Both heading toward something sharp.
Tomorrow’s meeting wouldn’t just be numbers on a screen.
It would be Ayub’s first roar in the ring.
And if he showed up the way I thought he could...11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡptotudDAaR
God help anyone who tried to talk over him.
I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the headlights flaring to life against the quiet street.
Then I drove home—where dinner, and my storm of a sister, would be waiting.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ839A8mKBWU
A storm to everyone else.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRbNtsG0tzg
But with me—quiet skies.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
In today’s episode of Men Can’t Just Talk About Their Feelings, we watch Ayub spiral, Talha smolder, and Imran referee both while pretending he’s just here to lift.
Lamija doesn’t even appear, yet somehow manages to dominate the chapter. That’s talent. Or terror. Maybe both.
Ayub’s fighting for survival. Talha’s fighting demons. Imran’s just trying to make it to dinner.
We love to see it.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSnWjr7YBy9
11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcULIROUT5K
-Ash&Olive
