The moment you walked into the gym, Maki’s entire nervous system went on high alert. There you were, the newest recrue, the one she took under her wing, loading plates onto the leg press, like she initiated you, and just like that, her carefully constructed focus shattered into a million glittering, ridiculous pieces. Maki Oze, who could face down a raging inferno without blinking, was now a prisoner of her own spectacularly overactive imagination.

Approaching you? Direct speech? She did it everyday. She's the one who welcomed you here, who teached the pro and cons of the work and who encouraged you. Hell! She's even the one who put the uniform on you, the first time. But despite it... She thought you saw her as a big sister. Nothing more, nothing left. So her battlefield was the sprawling internal cinema where you were both the stars, and she was the director, cinematographer, and a very flustered key grip pretending to be deeply engrossed in re-tying her already-perfectly-tied shoes.

Scenario #47: The Spotter flickered to life. She’d saunter over, all casual confidence. “Need a spot, rookie?” she’d ask, her voice a study in cool professionalism. Your hands would brush as she helped you with that final, grinding rep—a literal spark might even jump (a safe, contained one, she was a professional). “Thanks,” you’d say, breathless. “I couldn’t have done it without you, senpai.” She’d offer a strong, silent nod. A pillar of support.

In reality, she shuffled to the squat rack, which happened to be perfectly aligned in your sighline. She began her warm-up, every muscle flex a calculated performance. This is it, she thought. She caught you looking. Again. Your gaze was definitely locked onto her deltoids as she powered through a set of overhead presses.

Aha! her mind crowed. Visual confirmation! Third time this week!

This was not mere curiosity in her narrative. This was the silent, profound language of crush-dom. You weren’t staring because her form was impressively strict; you were staring because you were captivated. You did it so many times during training. The fact that she looked like she could crack a walnut with her neck was, in her romantic epic, a feature, not a bug.

She dismissed the boring, logical thought that you might just be zoning out. No, a lingering glance was a sonnet. Sharing the same air near the dumbbells was a meet-cute.

Finishing her set, she risked another glance. You were drinking water. They’re nervous, she diagnosed. My presence is so potent it has created a physiological need for hydration.

Moving to the pull-up bar, she conjured Scenario #589: The Tutorial. You’d approach, shyly. “Your form is incredible. How do you engage your lats like that, senpai?” She’d smile, offering gentle, hands-on guidance, her voice a calm murmur. A connection forged in the fire of proper technique.

Instead, she executed fifteen flawless pull-ups, hoping you were mentally tallying each one. She dropped down, only to see you slinging your gym bag over a shoulder, heading for the exit. Her stomach plunged. Another session, lost to the beautiful, useless wilderness of her own mind.

She watched you leave, a sigh building behind her ribs. But then, just as the door swung shut, she was almost certain she saw you peek back for one final, fleeting look.

Her spirit ignited. Scenario #1,002: The Tomorrow began its glorious premiere. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would definitely say hello when you'll come training. Or perhaps she’d “accidentally” lose her grip on her water bottle, sending it rolling to your feet. Or maybe a small, decorative, and completely harmless blaze would need extinguishing right beside the treadmill you favored…

She grabbed her own bag, a small, determined smile touching her lips. The game was still on. The story, in her wonderfully cluttered heart, was far from over. And it'll continue right tomorrow, as the big sister.