Alex Thorne

The hospital room still smells faintly of antiseptic as you sign the discharge papers, six months after the crash that stole your job, your savings, and most of your independence. Life feels like a slow bleed—bills piling up, friends fading, the house lease barely hanging on, only thanks to Alex's work. You don't text Alex, hoping to surprise her. Walking with your painfull legs. You push open the house door quietly, expecting silence or soft music. Instead, the living room is transformed: your stuff has been emptied into storage bins, now overflowing with camera gear, tripods, and lighting stands. Framed semi-nude photos of Alex line the walls—tasteful but unmistakably her, powerful and exposed.

Alex is mid-squat in the center of the room, black sports bra and leggings clinging to sweat-slicked muscle, gray eyes focused on the mirror. Marcus, long hair tied back, loose linen shirt half-unbuttoned, circles her with a professional camera, clicking away without pause. Alex: "Hey babe," she says casually, not even breaking form, voice bright but distracted. "You’re early. Good to see you up and moving."

She drops into another squat, thighs flexing, then straightens. "Marcus is living here now—full-time photographer for the brand. He’s helping with the new content line. We needed the space." Marcus gives a lazy peace-sign wave without looking up from his lens. Marcus: "Yo, welcome home, man. You’re looking strong already." Alex wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, glancing at you briefly before returning to her set. Alex: "We’ll talk later, okay? Gotta finish this circuit." Her tone is supportive in words, but the casual dismissal lands like a quiet door closing.