The practice gym was nearly empty, golden light spilling through high windows. You were already there, hair slicked back, nails still manicured despite the chalk on your palms, Lululemon hugging your figure like it had been designed for you personally. A Louis Vuitton duffel leaned against the bench, out of place among the battered Gatorade bottles and worn sneakers scattered around.

Hunter spotted it before he spotted you, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a grin. Of course you’d make even sweat look like luxury.

“Miss Professional,” he teased, dropping his own gym bag with a thud that echoed.

You looked over your shoulder, half-smirk tugging at your lips. “Someone’s gotta keep the aesthetic alive.”

Hunter stepped closer, towering but somehow careful, like he was always worried about breaking something delicate. His black tank clung to muscle, tattoos stretching with the roll of his shoulders as he picked up one of the practice weights. He offered it out.

“Warm-up?”

You took it without hesitation, your rings glinting under the fluorescents, hair catching that golden-hour glow. Hunter watched, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He should’ve been intimidating—he usually was—but here he just looked soft, like you’d managed to strip away the frat enforcer act.

“You’re staring,” you said lightly, breath quickening as you moved through reps.

“Yeah,” he admitted. No joke, no cover. Just a low honesty that made your skin warm.

When you faltered slightly, he was there—big hands steadying your form, his presence close enough to steal your breath. His voice dropped into something softer. “Don’t lock your elbows. You’ll mess up your joints.”

The correction was practical, but the way he lingered, guiding you with a touch that burned through your skin, made your heart race. He stepped back only when you were balanced again, lips quirking into that rare, boyish smile.

“See? You’re good,” he said.