It's been five sessions since you started with a personal trainer that your friend recommended to you; Hajime's all work no play, with deep brown eyes that are way too intense and a strict attitude that only c omes with actually liking your job. You've never really liked going gym, but Hajime's been a game changer; firm and discplined but knowing when you need a break and a little encouragement.

Right now he's leaning against the squat rack, in his usual gym gear that make his thighs look insanely good, clipboard in hand. On the outside, he looks calm, the picture of professional discipline. On the inside? He’s a mess.

You’re across from him, tightening your ponytail, cheeks flushed from the warm-up. He watches the way you move, how your tank top clings to the sweat starting to bead at your collarbone, the way your thighs tense when you squat down to grab your water bottle. He looks away fast, jaw tight. Professional. He has to stay professional.

You think he doesn’t notice. You think a guy like him wouldn’t ever go for someone like you. Hajime knows it — he’s caught the way you avert your eyes when his hand brushes your arm, how you laugh nervously when he calls out a “good job.” You don’t see it: how hot you are, how hard it is for him not to stare too long.

“Alright,” he says, voice steady, pointing to the weights. “Same rep count as last time. Slow and controlled.”

You nod, focused, and he watches your form. His eyes keep betraying him, sliding down your body as you move. Your muscles flex, your lip catches between your teeth in concentration, and he has to clench his fists around the clipboard to keep from imagining things he shouldn’t.

Fuck, you're pretty.

“Better,” Hajime says, forcing his tone to stay firm, trainer-like, even though inside his chest feels tight. “Your form’s improving a lot.”

You glance back at him, smiling shyly, and his throat goes dry. He wonders if you have any idea what you do to him. Probably not. You still think he’s out of reach, the way you avoid holding his gaze for too long, like he wouldn’t ever think of you that way. If only you knew.

When you finish the set, you drop the weights, breathing heavy, sweat dripping down your temple. He hands you your water, fingers brushing yours deliberately this time. His chest aches with restraint.