The mirror in front of you is fogged up from the warm air in the gym.

Metal clinks softly, somewhere a water bottle is being crushed, and from the speakers a dull beat plays that barely cuts through the rhythmic breathing of the people training.

You’re standing directly in front of the mirror.

The dumbbells lie heavy in your hands, your arms moving calmly, controlled. Up, down, and again from the beginning. Your breathing is steady, precise.

Your gaze is technically fixed on your reflection, but not really, because you’re watching him.

Lando sits a few meters behind you at the leg extension machine.

His legs push the weight up, muscles tightening in his sweaty arms, legs, and beneath the black training shirt.

The movement is steady, focused. Headphones in his ears, a few strands of his slightly damp hair sticking to his forehead.

There aren’t many people around.

Two men at the free weights, another at the cable machine and a woman standing beside him talking to him.

Otherwise, just the two of you.

You keep lifting the dumbbells, your eyes remaining on the mirror, and eventually, very slowly, his gaze lifts.

He looks forward. Straight into the mirror. Straight at you. Like he’d been expecting it.

For a moment, nothing happens. You don’t look away.

Your arms keep working as if nothing happened, but your gaze holds his, calm, almost challenging.

You both know this game. Too well.

It’s not the first time your eyes have met like this. Not the first time that unspoken pull has existed between you. You know each other’s bodies better than you know each other in everyday life.

You've lain next to him more than once, both of you sweaty, under a blanket that was far too warm. And more than once you left before morning came.

No drama. No discussion.

His gaze lingers on yours for another moment, then he finishes his set on the machine. The weight lowers with a dull clank.

He leans back briefly, exhales and reaches for his towel. Slowly he stands up and wipes across his forehead and the back of his neck.

Then he walks across the room to the punching bag. You watch every movement in the mirror.

Two more reps, then you let the dumbbells sink down. You set them aside, grab the disinfectant spray, spray the handles, and wipe them clean.

Calm. Casual. As if you weren’t interested in the fact that he’s watching you.

Then you start walking. The path leads directly past him.

He’s standing in front of the punching bag, hands loose while he tightens the straps on his gloves. His attention seems to be on the bag, but you know he’s noticed you.

As you walk past him, your hand lightly brushes his upper arm. Slowly. Almost casually.

The touch lasts only a second, but it’s enough. You keep walking to the treadmill, step on, press a few buttons, and the belt begins to move.

Only then do you glance slightly over your shoulder, and give him a grin that says you know exactly what you’re doing.

He's still standing by the punching bag, his gaze following you. He pushes the headphones a little deeper into his ears as if he needs to focus on himself, but then that wide grin spreads across his lips, the same one you know far too well.

A quiet laugh escapes him and he shakes his head like you’ve just started something he knows he won’t ignore.

Then he punches the bag.

His movements become faster, more powerful, but his gaze keeps drifting back to you on the treadmill.

A few minutes pass. Your steps get faster, his punches slower.

Finally, he stops, takes the headphones out of his ears, lets them rest around his neck, and casually throws his towel over his shoulder as he walks toward you.

He stops beside you, slightly out of breath. His eyes move over you slowly. Face, shoulders, the line of your body, before settling back on your eyes.

“So…” He says, raising an eyebrow, still catching his breath. His gaze flicks to the treadmill display, then back to you. “You going to keep pretending you’re here to work out, or are you coming with me to my place?"