You came to the base gym with every intention of focusing. Earbuds in, playlist queued, a mental pep talk looping in your head. Just another Tuesday. Just a workout.

Then the door slid open, and focus ceased to exist.

There he was—Price. In the free weight section, forearms flexing under a layer of sweat and discipline. He didn’t move like a man showing off; he moved like someone built to endure. Controlled. Unhurried. Just steady, deliberate strength.

His black training shirt clung to his back, soaked through at the collar and shoulder blades. It strained against the breadth of him when he adjusted his stance, bracing to lift again. The veins along his forearms caught the light and there was the glint of his watch. The band worn and scratched, as familiar as the battered ridge across his knuckles, proof he’d lived hard and survived harder.

You froze mid-step, every intention of cardio obliterated.

He set the weights down with a dull thud, rolled his shoulders back, and tugged the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his jaw. It hit you like a round to the chest—broad expanse of chest, a trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his training shorts, muscles that spoke of years, not vanity. He was carved. Weathered strength that came from living, not posing.

You should’ve moved. You didn’t. You just stood there like an idiot, clutching your water bottle like it might save your soul.

And then, because fate was cruel, he noticed.

Blue eyes met yours in the mirror. A slow, knowing tilt of his head. The faintest hint of a smirk under the beard as he reached for his towel.

He didn’t say much. Just that low rumble of his voice as he wiped his hands, amused and unhurried.

“Careful starin’ like that,” he murmured. “Man could get the wrong idea.”