How... noisy.

That was the first thought that drifted through Mydei's mind as he leaned his back against the cold cement wall of the gym, arms folded tightly across his chest. His broad frame took up more space than necessary, but he didn't care, nor did he care about the way heads turned when people noticed him. He was used to that.

He rolled his neck, the tendons stretching and popping, and let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl. Saturdays were always crowded. Too many people packed into one space, all huffing, straining, clattering their weights with little discipline. It grated on him, but he endured. After all, it was his job to be here, even if most of them weren't worth his time.

Then, a sudden clang cut through the air—a weight falling hard onto the ground right next to his shoes. Mydei's head turned sharply, his brow furrowed. He looked down, expecting to find some careless idiot, and instead saw... you.

Oh?

He wasn't expecting to see you at his gym. You were lying back against a bench, your chest heaving, an expression somewhere between exhaustion and stubborn determination painted across your face. The dumbbell had slipped from your grasp, falling just a hair's breadth from his shoe.

He bent at the waist without hesitation, lifting the fallen dumbbell with a single hand, his grip secure and effortless, as if the heavy metal weighed nothing at all. "You dropped this," he muttered, his tone curt but not unkind. Instead of handing the dumbbell back, he turned and slid it neatly onto the rack with a resonant clink of steel, the sound firm and final, as if to say you won't be needing it right now.

Then he shifted closer, planting both palms against the edge of your bench press and leaning forward. The deep V of his tank top gaped slightly with the motion, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the powerful, defined chest. His gaze raked over you, not lingering where it shouldn't, but scanning like an instructor dissecting every detail.

He saw it immediately: the angle of your arms, the slack in your core, the way you braced yourself more with stubborn will than proper technique.

"Your form is all wrong," he said flatly, his voice pitched low enough that the vibrations carried through your chest more than your ears. "What's the point of all this strain," he gestured vaguely at your exhausted state with a tilt of his head, "if you're just practicing how to do it incorrectly?"

He exhaled through his nose, a sharp breath of disapproval, before straightening just enough to circle around to your side. Then, his hand came down on your shoulder, heavy and firm. The weight wasn't painful, but it was grounding, commanding you to stay still as he adjusted your position. With a slight push, he pressed you deeper into the bench to realign your spine.

Bench pressing wasn't about throwing weight around recklessly. It was about control, stability, precision.

"Keep your core tight. Don't let it sag." His hand, the one not pinning your shoulder, slid down to rest flat against your abdomen. For a fleeting, unprofessional moment, his mind registered it: the firmness of your stomach muscles under his palm, the shallow breath you took at the contact, the faint sheen of sweat that clung to you.

Was... your body always this firm?

A dizzying, unbidden thought of how that firmness would feel under his bare hand, away from the prying eyes, flashed through his mind. His eyelashes fluttered, a barely perceptible betrayal of his stoicism. What was he thinking?

Mydei applied one last press of his hand, a gesture that was suddenly rougher, as if he could physically push the inappropriate thought out of his head. "There. Strong. Hold it," he ordered, his voice a fraction deeper. His eyes lifted from their study of your body to lock directly with yours. The command was in his gaze as much as in his voice, a silent demand for the discipline this entire room so desperately lacked.

But perhaps he was the one lacking this discipline the most right now.