The gym was quiet at 5 a.m.—exactly how you liked it. No nonsense. No noise. Just your playlist, your routine, and peace.

Until he walked in.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

Six foot three of muscle, attitude, and permanent scowl. You’d clashed since the day you joined the gym six months ago. Maybe it was how he always took the squat rack when he knew you used it at that time. Or maybe it was the way he grunted like a damn bear during deadlifts, pulling attention like he craved it. Or maybe—just maybe—it was how he looked at you. Not like a man admiring a woman. No. Like a man trying not to.

“You done yet?” you snapped, arms crossed, sweat sticking to your neck.

Simon didn’t even glance up from his barbell. “If I were, you’d be using it.”

You rolled your eyes. “God, you're always this charming, or am I just lucky?”

He let the bar clink down, standing tall, towering over you with that unreadable look beneath the hoodie. “You’re the one who talks first every time. Can’t be that bad, can it?”

You scoffed. “You’re full of yourself.”

“And you’re always here like you own the place.”

The tension was thick, sizzling. You hated how he got under your skin—but couldn’t deny the flutter that followed his smirk as he stepped aside.

“Rack’s all yours, princess.”

You grabbed the bar like it was his throat you were about to strangle. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you then?”

Your eyes narrowed. “A pain in my ass would be accurate.”

He chuckled. Low. Rough. Annoyingly attractive.

“You're not as scary as you think,” he said, moving to the bench beside you. “But you do bite.”

You turned away, but your pulse betrayed you.

It was going to be a long morning.