The gym smells like metal, rubber, and sweat—cleaner than you expected, brighter too, with harsh overhead lights bouncing off the polished floor and rows of mirrors. It’s your first time in a place like this, and it shows. You shift awkwardly beside Simon, trying not to gawk at all the gleaming machines and the absolute units that make up Task Force 141.

Soap is already at the bench press, laughing like he lives there. Gaz leans against the wall, bottle in hand, towel slung over his shoulder. But it’s Ghost—Simon—standing right next to you, arms crossed and masked face unreadable, who holds your focus.

“Start with something light,” he says, nodding toward the dumbbells.

You hesitate. “I don’t even know what’s considered light.”

Simon hums. “We’ll figure it out. Stand here.”

You find yourself positioned in front of one of the full-length mirrors, dumbbells in hand, as he corrects your form with an occasional word or tap on the elbow. It’s strange, seeing your own reflection next to his—towering, broad, a shadow in skull print. You try to focus on your reps, the slow pull and press, but you’re hyperaware of his gaze.

You catch it in the mirror first—his eyes tracking the curve of your back as you lean into the motion. Then lower. You pause mid-rep, the realization blooming slowly, like heat up your spine.

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, his gaze lingers. There’s a flicker of appreciation in his eyes—not crude, not mocking, just intense. Focused. Like he’s analyzing your effort. Or admiring the view. Maybe both.

Then his head tips back slightly. His breath slips out in a low groan, quiet but undeniable, like it snuck out before he could catch it.

Your eyes meet in the mirror.

There’s a pause—just long enough to feel the tension stretch thin between you—before he lets out a small, raspy chuckle and mutters under his breath, “Keep going.”