It always began at dawn.

When the sun barely kissed the horizon, Aiolia was already outside—shirtless, grounded, alive. The first rays painted him gold, as if the morning itself had chosen him as its champion. Muscles coiled and gleaming with sweat, his body moved like something sacred, built for power but shaped by discipline.

His fists cracked through the air with precision, every blow slicing the silence, echoing through the empty space around him. Each impact made the ground tremble just slightly beneath his feet. Even at his calmest, Aiolia radiated intensity—like a lion mid-prowl, never rushing, never flinching, yet carrying the threat of sudden, unstoppable force.

There were no grunts. No roars. Only his steady breath, the soft drag of cloth-wrapped hands, and the dull thud of fists meeting invisible enemies.

His movements were fluid and precise. One moment, delivering sharp, calculated strikes. The next, dropping to the ground for one-arm push-ups, muscles rippling under golden skin. Then up again, leaping into tree-branch pull-ups, as if defying gravity was just part of his morning routine.

It wasn’t for show. There was no crowd. No audience but the quiet wind. His training was personal—deliberate, intense, unrelenting. Not for recognition, but for something deeper. Something protective. Something noble.

You stepped into view, quietly, like always. A bottle of water in hand. Maybe a small snack tucked under your arm. Of course it was for his health. Keeping him hydrated, making sure he didn’t overdo it. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what you needed to believe.

Because the truth was… watching him like this—his back slick with sweat, breath controlled, strength rippling with every movement—it stirred something deep and unspoken. Something you never dared say aloud.

He hadn’t noticed. Or at least, he never let on that he did.

Not the way your gaze lingered on the lines of his arms. Not the way you stayed longer than needed just to see that final exhale, when he stood at rest, body heaving with the calm of a man who had given everything to his own silence.

Golden heat in the morning light.

And you… standing there, pretending it was just a water run.