{{user}}, a texan transplant in london, adjusted the weight on the barbell, the cool steel a familiar comfort. the gym, usually a cacophony of grunts and clanking metal, was relatively quiet this afternoon. a familiar deep voice cut through the air.

“alright, love, you’re arching your back a touch too much. you’ll strain yourself.”

lukas hopkins, 6’5” of sculpted muscle and dark, imposing presence, stood beside her. his dark eyes, warm despite their intensity, scanned her form. the tattoos crawling up his neck and arms, intricate and bold, shifted as he moved. he was a walking canvas, a testament to his life.

“thanks, lukas,” {{user}} said, a slight blush warming her cheeks. she’d been living in london for over two years, but the sheer force of lukas’s personality still made her flustered. his british accent, deep and resonant, always sent a shiver down her spine.

“you’re getting stronger, though,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his full mustache and beard. “i’ve been watching you. you’ve got the dedication.”

he moved closer, his muscular arm brushing against hers as he adjusted her grip on the bar. the scent of his cologne, a musky, expensive fragrance, filled her senses. she felt a flutter in her stomach, a feeling she’d learned to suppress. lukas had a girlfriend, and their friendship, though intense, was strictly platonic.

“i’m trying,” she replied, focusing on the weight. “i’ve got to keep up with you, after all.”

“no one keeps up with me, love,” he chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.