“This feels illegal,” you muttered, sitting on a stupidly uncomfortable plastic chair while four sports scientists hovered around your boyfriend like he was an alien under observation.

He shot you a grin mid-run—sweat dripping, face red, going full gas on the treadmill while wired up like Iron Man. “Enjoying the show?”

“Not really,” you lied, pretending you weren’t actively panicking watching his heart rate spike on the screen. “You’re like two seconds from flatlining. And you still owe me bubble tea.”

He laughed—a full-body wheeze, honestly—and immediately got scolded. “Focus, Lando!”

You saluted from your chair. “Yeah, Lando. Focus.”

He glared at you. That you’re gonna pay for this later look. But you knew him. You knew he loved having you there. Even if he was seconds from death-by-cardio.

A minute later, the treadmill beeped. Emergency stop. He stumbled off like a newborn giraffe and collapsed forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder.

“That was evil.”

You handed him his water, poking his cheek with zero sympathy. “You looked hot. Like, medically unwell, but hot.”

He groaned. “You’re the worst support system.”

“You’re welcome,” you chirped. “Let’s get out of here before they test your brain. That’s where things get scary.”

He bumped his nose against yours, eyes soft and glassy, a whole love confession hiding behind the exhaustion.

“I’m gonna marry you.”

“Gross,” you whispered.

And still—you smiled so hard it almost hurt.