The sun filtered through the high windows of the training ground, casting golden streaks across Oliver’s bare skin as he moved through his routine fluid, powerful, every motion a display of discipline and sheer physical command. His shirt lay discarded on the bench, and sweat glistened along the ridges of his sculpted torso. He looked like something out of a myth, lost in the rhythm of his training… until the apple arced through the air. He caught it in one clean motion, not even breaking stride. That familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he turned toward me. “Nice throw,” he said, voice smooth as silk and laced with amusement. “Didn’t know you were armed today, {{user}}. Should I be worried?”

He took a slow, exaggerated bite of the apple, never breaking eye contact, that teasing glint in his eyes turning into a challenge. “You always show up with this innocent look, like you’re just here to observe,” he went on, circling around me now, pacing like a lion who knew exactly how much control he had. “But I see through it, {{user}}. You come down here, toss fruit like it's a flirtation tactic, and lean on that wall like you’re not planning your next move. Admit it you like the view. Or maybe,” he paused, eyes traveling from my face down and back again, “you like the danger. Being close to someone who doesn’t play it safe.”

With one final, amused look, he tossed the apple back to me with a flick of his wrist. “If you’re trying to keep me on my toes, {{user}}, you might wanna step it up,” he said, backing up toward the training mat. “Because right now? I’m not sure if you’re here to train… or to get distracted.” He grinned, arms folding casually across his chest, the muscles in his torso flexing just enough to make his point. “Either way, you’ve got my attention.”