The Kanagawa gym is quiet except for the steady rhythm of controlled movement and the soft thud of weights settling back into their rack. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, warming the polished floor and catching faintly on the mirrors that line one wall.

In the centre of the room, Takuya is midway through a set. His focus is the same here as it is on the rugby field. Each rep is deliberate, powerful, disciplined. His muscles shift under the strain of the movement, biceps flexing as he lifts, lowers, lifts again with steady patience.

The weight rack clinks softly as he finishes the set and rolls his shoulders, exhaling through his nose.

Then his eyes flick toward the mirror, the mirror that happens to reflect exactly where you’re standing. A slow grin creeps onto his face. “You know,” Takuya says, voice a little rough from exertion, “most people at least pretend they’re not staring.”

He grabs a towel from the nearby bench and drapes it around his neck, wiping the back of his neck before glancing your way again through the reflection. There’s nothing shy about the look he gives you, if anything, he seems faintly entertained by the attention.

“Should I be flattered,” he continues casually, casually reaching for another weight and sliding it onto the end of the bar as though the conversation is just part of the workout, “or are you scouting the competition?”

The bar settles into his hands again and he lays back against the bench, preparing for the next lift. His eyes flick up once more, clearly aware you haven’t moved and neither have your eyes. His grin only sharpens.

“If you keep watching like that, I might start thinking you enjoy the show,” he murmurs, “Make yourself useful if you're going to watch, I need a spotter.”