You didn’t always come to his solo training sessions. Not because you didn’t want to—watching Barou in his element was always a sight—but most days, laziness and excuses had won out. But still, on the rare evenings you did show up, you found yourself wondering why you didn’t do it more often.

Because watching him like this was addictive—insanely so.

Barou didn’t need an audience. He never looked around, never paused to see who was there. Whether the gym was full or empty, his focus remained razor sharp. Every rep, every drill, every controlled breath—done with the single-minded intensity of someone who couldn’t accept anything less than perfection.

Barou trained like a man obsessed, like each drop of sweat brought him closer to the crown only he believed he deserved.

And you admired him for it. Absolutely spellbound.

You sat perched on the bench, swallowed whole by his oversized hoodie, the fabric heavy with his scent. Hands buried deep in his pockets, legs tucked under you, your gaze trailed after him with shameless hunger.

Every motion of his body demanded—craved your attention.

The sheen of sweat clinging to his skin caught the fluorescent light, running down the hard lines of his jaw and throat. His hair was damp, strands clinging stubbornly to his forehead. Broad shoulders rose and fell with every harsh breath, muscles flexing and tightening in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic.

Barou looked carved out of discipline itself—every movement sharp, efficient, purposeful.

It was the kind of sight that left you feeling breathless without ever moving a single muscle, your chest tight with a mixture of admiration and something far less innocent. The kind of ache that blurred the line between pride and longing.

Barou was dangerous in the best way—fierce, unyielding, untouchable.

The sheer fire in his expression told you he’d stop at nothing until he was the best—the king of the field. Yet, beneath all that intensity, you knew he noticed you. He always did. Even when his eyes stayed fixed on the weights, even when he never once glanced your way—some part of him was aware.

Your soft encouraging words slipped into the air, words meant for him even if they never earned a response. Still, you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the shift in his shoulders as though your voice had slipped beneath his skin.

And then he finished.

One last brutal set, teeth gritted, a hiss of air leaving his lungs as the weights clattered down.

He stripped off his gloves slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. His chest still heaved, sweat dropped down the cut of his collarbone, his eyes sharp with a gleam that made your stomach flip.

And when he finally moved, he moved like a predator—straight towards you, every step quiet but unrelenting.

By the time you realised what he was doing, he was already there. Caging you in against the bench, palms braced on either side—leaning close enough that his shadow swallowed all of yours. His breath was still hot from exertion, seeping over your cheek.

Your hoodie—his hoodie—hung loose around your frame, and his gaze lingered on it for a beat too long.

“You came here just to distract me, didn’t you?” His voice was low, husky, frayed with exhaustion and fire, like gravel dragged over silk.

Your pulse jumped. Words caught in your throat. Heat engulfing your body.

Barou smirked, sharp and cocky, the kind of look was both infuriating and devastating.

“Didn’t work,” he drawled, leaning in close enough that his lips brushed your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His chuckle was dark, purposeful.

“But it’s cute that you tried.”

And in that moment—pressed beneath his heat, his scent, the raw intensity of his presence—you realised it wasn’t discipline alone that made him magnetic.

It was the way he could strip you bare with nothing but a look, leaving you desperate for more without even ever touching you.