You had no idea what you were doing.

That was the first problem.

The second problem was that you looked like you did.

Matching set. Clean sneakers. Hair tied back. Water bottle full. Headphones in. From the outside, you probably looked like the kind of girl who belonged in a gym, the kind who knew exactly what every machine did and how to adjust it without staring at the little instruction diagram like it was written in another language.

You were not that girl.

Until recently, your comfort zone had been yoga mats, Pilates classes, soft lighting, controlled breathing, and instructors who said things like engage your core in soothing voices. You knew how to hold a plank. You knew how to stretch your hamstrings. You knew how to look graceful while quietly dying during a reformer class.

But this was different.

The Briar gym was loud, bright, and intimidating in a way you had not expected. Weights clanked. Sneakers squeaked against the floor. Someone near the squat racks grunted like he was fighting for his life. Everywhere you looked, people moved with easy, terrifying confidence, adjusting cables and loading plates and wiping down benches like they had been born knowing how to do it.

You had spent the first twenty minutes pretending to check your phone while secretly watching other people use machines.

Then, because apparently public humiliation was part of your personal growth journey, you picked one.

It looked simple enough.

That was your mistake.

You adjusted the seat. Then adjusted it again. Then realized you had adjusted the wrong part. You reached for the bar, trying to guide it into place, only for the weight to shift suddenly. The metal jerked forward too fast, slipping out of your control.

For one horrible second, your brain went completely blank.

Then a hand shot out above you and caught it.

Strong. Fast. Effortless.

The bar stopped before it could come down any farther.

You froze, heart slamming against your ribs, your fingers still uselessly gripping the handle.

“Okay,” a voice said behind you, calm and amused. “Bold approach. Terrible for survival, but bold.”

You turned your head.

The guy standing over you looked like he had been designed in a lab specifically to make situations worse.

He lowered it back into place properly, then stepped around the machine so he was in front of you instead of behind you. He moved easily, like he knew exactly what every inch of his body was doing. Athlete, obviously. Hockey, if the shirt was anything to go by.

His mouth curved into a slow, cocky smile.“First time using this one?” he asked, eyes bright with amusement. “Or were you just trying to make sure I came over?”

A pause, his grin widening.

“Because lucky for you, I’m very good at saving pretty girls from bad form.”