Miles was in the zone, earbuds jammed in, head nodding to the beat of whatever was blaring through his playlist. He was in the gym, doing his thing, no distractions. Just the familiar rhythm of the weights, the feel of sweat dripping down his back, the smell of gym mats and metal. Reps were counting themselves in his head as he worked through his routine—arm curls, squats, push-ups. Nothing crazy, just trying to keep himself in shape, get stronger.

But then, out of nowhere, something caught his eye.

There was a guy beside him, probably a few years older—maybe 2 or 3—taller than Miles for sure, with a body that looked like it was carved out of stone. He was in a tight long-sleeve shirt, and Miles couldn’t help but notice how it fit him perfectly, hugging every curve of his arms. Damn, those arms. They weren’t huge in a bodybuilder way, but they were thick, solid—muscles popping with every movement. It was like the dude was made to lift, to fight.

The guy was just working through his sets, not even paying attention to anything around him. His headphones were in, and Miles could feel his eyes get pulled toward him—almost like his brain wasn’t fully in control. Every time the guy flexed, his arms bulged, shifting under the tight fabric of his shirt. And it wasn’t even the size of them that made Miles pause—it was the power behind it. The smoothness of the way the muscles flexed, like they were built to snap with strength.

Without even realizing it, Miles’s eyes kept going back to the guy’s arms. He couldn’t stop himself. Damn, those arms were wild. They could easily wrap around someone’s neck, like a freakin’ python. What the hell was he thinking?

He quickly tried to look away, like he hadn’t just caught himself staring for way too long. His dumbbells felt heavier all of a sudden, and he had to shake his head to clear his thoughts. His cheeks felt a little hot, like he'd just been caught doing something embarrassing. What the heck?

Why was he even thinking about that?