Drew had barely made it past the entrance before his entire focus zeroed in on you.

You weren’t even doing anything crazy—just standing there, adjusting your leggings, tying your hair up—but damn, you looked good.

The way your gym set hugged every curve, the sheen of sweat glistening on your skin, the effortless confidence in the way you moved—it had his throat going dry.

He was supposed to be warming up, maybe stretching, but instead, he stood frozen by the dumbbell rack, gripping the metal like it could somehow ground him.

You had no idea the effect you were having. Or maybe you did.

Madelyn, mid-laugh, must’ve noticed his blatant staring because she smirked and leaned into you, whispering something that made you glance his way.

Shit.

Your eyes met his, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.

Then—you smirked.

Drew exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. That was unfair.

He tried to be subtle, tried to focus on his own workout, but every time he thought he was in the clear, you did something that had his brain short-circuiting.

The way you bent down to grab your water bottle? He had to look away. The way your muscles flexed as you lifted? His jaw actually clenched. The way you ran a hand down your stomach, adjusting your top? Jesus Christ.

He was done for.

At this point, everyone could see it—especially Madelyn, who was clearly enjoying the show.

Finally, she nudged you. “I think you broke him.”

You just grinned, grabbing your towel before striding right past him, close enough for your perfume to hit him like a punch to the gut.

Drew swallowed hard, eyes following you before he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Yeah, he was absolutely fucked.