Anna let out a startled shriek.
"AH—!"
She missed a step, flailed, and nearly flew off the treadmill before gripping the handles for dear life.
"Daniel?!" she gasped, spinning her head around. "What are you doing here?!"
Daniel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, suit jacket already discarded, lips curved in lazy amusement. But his sharp eyes scanned her from head to toe—flushed cheeks, damp hair, trembling legs.
"You look," he said mildly, "like you're working out as if tomorrow doesn't exist."
She straightened stubbornly. "I'm training."
He raised an eyebrow. "For what? Surviving the apocalypse?"
"For life," she shot back.
He stepped closer, pressing a button to slow the treadmill without even looking.
"Next time," he said calmly, "warn your husband before you attempt suicide by gym equipment."
She huffed. "I wasn't trying to die."
"Anna," he said dryly, "you were arguing with a treadmill."
She opened her mouth to retort—then swayed.
