You can feel him before you see him.

Simon Riley—Ghost, as the staff mutter—moves like a force, not a man. You hear the weighted footsteps behind you, the shift in air pressure, the heavy exhale that says he’s already spotted you.

He’s always watching.

You’re not flashy. You don’t preen in front of mirrors or throw weights just to make noise. You come in, knock out your sets, train like you’re hiding something. And maybe you are.

Your hoodie clings to your back from sweat, but you haven’t dropped it. You don’t give him the full view. Not yet.

But his eyes burn anyway.

“You’re going to lose your rhythm,” he says behind you, voice deep, gritty, too close. “You keep pushing without recovery, you’ll lock up.”

You look at him. Slowly. Deliberate.

“Maybe I like the burn.”

He stares at you like he can read everything you’re not saying. His shirt is stretched across a chest that looks like it belongs on a Greek statue—except meaner. Shoulders like carved granite. Neck thick, jaw flexing under the mask. He wears compression like sin—tight across abs that don’t quit, thighs that test the seams of his sweats.

He looks like he could crush you. And the heat in your stomach says you want him to try.

“Get on the bench,” he says finally, nodding toward the rack.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re strong,” he says. “But I want to see what happens when someone else sets the limit.”

You stare at him. The silence between you goes taut.

But you lie back on the bench anyway.

He doesn’t touch the bar immediately. He adjusts your grip first. Rough palms wrap around your hands, then trail up to your elbows. His touch isn’t gentle—it’s precise. Controlled.

“You’ve got power under there,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Coiled. Contained. Like you’re afraid to snap.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for someone strong enough to handle the fallout.”

The corner of his mouth twitches behind the mask. He steps over you—literally. Stands at your head while you grip the bar. His thighs are beside your face. Massive. Solid. You tilt your chin and meet his eyes upside down.

“You’re flirting,” he says.

“I’m lifting.”

“Same thing, the way you’re doing it.”

The first rep is clean. So is the second. But by the fifth, you’re breathing harder—not because of the weight, but him. His presence. His voice.

“Push,” he growls.

You do. But the bar trembles now.

He leans closer. “Don’t lose your form.”

You suck in a breath. “Trying.”

His gloved fingers skim down your ribs—light, not assisting, just reminding you that he’s there.

“I said keep your form, sweetheart.”

Your body’s on fire. Your arms shake. Not from the lift. From the way his voice slips under your skin like a promise.

You rack the bar.

And then—his hand grips your throat. Just a hold, thumb brushing your jawline. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t have to.

“You want to keep pretending this is just training?”

You don’t answer.

He leans lower, his mask brushing your cheek.

“Next time I spot you,” he whispers, voice thick, “we’re not stopping at the bar.”