He remembered the first time he met you like it was yesterday. Five years ago, he had just moved into the apartment complex. His head was heavy, his chest tight, his mood darker than he could control. The knock on his door that day felt like an intrusion, and when he opened it, he saw you standing there with a shy smile and a warm pie in your hands. You wanted to welcome him. And what did he do? He snapped.

“I don’t give a damn about pies,” he had muttered harshly before slamming the door in your face.

The guilt hit him immediately. He had been in a bad place, exhausted and hurting from things he didn’t talk about, but that wasn’t your fault. For days afterward, he knocked on your door, trying to find the courage to apologize. But you never opened. He didn’t blame you. He would’ve avoided himself, too.

Two weeks later, he spotted you at the entrance of the building. Heart racing, he stopped you before you could walk past. He handed you a box with a pie inside. His voice was softer this time, almost pleading: “I was an asshole. I’m sorry. I was having a rough day, but you didn’t deserve that. Let's try again?”

Your hesitant smile told him everything. That was the start.

At first, you were just neighbors who slowly got used to each other’s presence — greeting each other in the hallway, chatting about small things, then lingering longer and longer at each other’s doors. Friendship grew naturally, quietly, until he realized one night that he couldn’t imagine his days without you in them. Seven months after that awkward introduction, he asked you out properly. You said yes.

A year later, he carried your boxes into his apartment, which was now your apartment. Sharing a home with you felt right, like he’d been waiting for it his whole life. The laughter, the late-night talks, the way you always warmed up his space — it became his safe haven.

Three years passed. He got down on one knee, hands shaking, voice trembling, and when you said “yes”, his world lit up brighter than he thought possible. The wedding was three months away, and you were already stressing. He noticed the way you frowned at the mirror, the way you complained about your body, about dresses not fitting the way you wanted. He told you you were beautiful, because to him, you were the most breathtaking person alive. But you shook your head stubbornly.

So, he signed you up at his gym. If it would help you feel better, he would help you. But he warned you: inside the gym, you weren’t his fiancée. You were a client. And he wasn’t going to go easy.

Now, here you were again, lying flat on the bench with the barbell in your hands. Your arms trembled, your breathing uneven. He stood above you, arms crossed, eyes sharp. His trainer mode switched on, his usual warmth hidden under strict discipline.

“Lower,” he ordered firmly. His gaze locked on yours. “This is some kind of childish level. You can do better. Look me in the eyes...” his gaze burned into yours, unwavering, steady. “...and pull it lower.”