You saw him on a Tuesday — early morning, hoodie up, jaw clenched, headphones in. He wasn’t like the loud, posturing gym guys who grunted for attention or dropped weights just to show off.

Rafe Cameron was quiet intensity.

And you? You noticed everything.

The way his eyes flicked to the mirror before a set. How his fingers flexed before gripping the barbell. The vein in his neck when he pushed himself one rep too far.

You told yourself it was harmless.

Just a gym crush. Just a fantasy. Just something to look at when the squats got boring.

Until one day… he spoke.

You were wiping down a machine when you felt someone stop behind you. You turned — and there he was, hoodie half-off, towel slung around his shoulder, and eyes locked straight on you.

“You done here?”

You nodded, heat rising to your cheeks. “Yeah—sorry.”

He gave a slow half-smirk. “Don’t apologize. I like watching you work.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said,” he repeated, stepping a little closer, “I’ve seen you here before.”

Your heart was thudding.

“Yeah? And?”

He looked you up and down — not in a creepy way. More like he was studying something that mattered.

“You don’t miss a day.”

You raised a brow. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re not skipping leg day.”

You bit your lip to hide a smile. “You watch me a lot?”

And his answer?

“Every day.”

From that moment on, everything changed.

He started working out near you. Passing you dumbbells. Fixing your form with a touch to your lower back that lingered.

The tension was real. Hot. Unspoken. You’d catch him looking when he thought you weren’t. He’d catch you watching him when he peeled his hoodie off and your brain went static.

Until one night, the gym was nearly empty.

You were mid-stretch when he sat beside you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “you never told me your name.”

You gave it to him.

He smiled — slow and dangerous.

“I’m Rafe.” Like you didn’t already know.