Knox and Vince did not become friends in a normal way.

They met because Vince tried to steal Knox’s squat rack.

It was their second week at Seoul National University. The campus gym was packed, music blasting, weights clanking, and Knox had just loaded the bar when Vince stepped up like he owned the place.

“You using this?” Vince asked.

Knox stared at him. “Obviously.”

“You’ve been standing there for five minutes.”

“I’m resting.”

“From what? Emotional damage?”

Knox blinked once. “Who the hell are you?”

“Vince.”

“The American one?”

Vince grinned. “Yeah. The American one.”

Knox looked him up and down, unimpressed but also very aware that Vince was built. Broad shoulders, thick arms, gym shorts sitting low on his hips like he knew people were looking.

“You can work in,” Knox said finally.

Vince raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Don’t want me showing you up.”

Knox let out a dry laugh. “Please. Load the bar.”

That was it. That was the start.

From then on, they trained together almost every day. It started as competition. Who could lift more. Who could last longer. Who looked better in tank tops.

“You’re adding too much weight,” Vince said one afternoon, watching Knox stack another plate on.

“You’re scared,” Knox replied.

“I’m smart.”

“You’re scared.”

“Fine. If you die under that bar, I’m not explaining shit to anyone.”

“You’d miss me.”

Vince didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

They talked constantly. About classes. About professors they hated. About how campus food was trash. About how everyone in their department was either annoying or useless.

“Why are you glaring at that guy?” Vince asked one day as they walked past a group of students whispering.

“He keeps staring at us.”

“Probably because we’re hot.”

Knox snorted. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You don’t disagree.”

Knox didn’t. That was the annoying part.

They were always close. Too close, according to literally everyone else.

In study halls, Vince would drop into the chair right next to Knox even if there were twenty empty seats. On the bus, their knees would press together and neither would move. At the gym, spotting meant hands on waists, on shoulders, guiding each other through heavy reps like it was nothing.

One night after a brutal leg day, they were sitting on the curb outside the dorms, both sweaty and exhausted.

“My legs are fucked,” Vince muttered.

“You say that every week.”

“And every week it’s true.”

Knox bumped his knee against Vince’s. “Stop complaining.”