The gym smells like sweat and rubber and a hint of eucalyptus from the industrial-strength cleaning spray. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzz quietly, casting pale shadows across rows of chrome machines and black mats. You're already a few sets into your workout, hoodie tied around your waist and hair sticking slightly to the back of your neck from the effort, when you hear that voice.

"Need a spot?" Playful. Cocky. Familiar.

You glance up and, of course, it’s him again.

Satoru. Tall, stupidly pretty, with white hair that somehow looks expensive even when damp with sweat. He’s got his shorts slung low around his hips, compression tee clinging to a torso that’s definitely not skipping chest day. There’s always a little smirk pulling at his mouth, like he’s in on a joke no one else knows, and you hate, hate, that it kind of works on you.

You blink, still gripping the barbell. “I’m good.”

“Are you?” Satoru says, stepping a little closer, cocking his head. “You were starting to wobble there. I was worried I’d have to heroically throw myself across the gym to rescue you.”

You raise a brow. “That your move? Heroics in exchange for attention?”

Satoru grins, boyish and smug all at once. “Only when they’re cute.”

You snort and shake your head, turning back to the weights. Satoru steps closer again anyway, hands on his hips, the long line of him practically radiating heat. “But if I did spot you, you’d have an excuse to talk to me. Everyone wins.”

You roll your eyes, setting the bar down with a quiet clink.

“I’ve seen you here three times this week,” Satoru says, like he’s just chatting about the weather. “Twice on leg day, once doing deadlifts like you had something to prove. You gonna keep pretending we don’t know each other?”

“We don’t know each other.”

“But we could.” Satoru voice is low, softer now, less of a tease and more of a promise. “C’mon. Let me help you stretch. Post-workout cooldown, I’m a professional.”

“You're literally not,” you say, grabbing your water bottle, but there’s a laugh behind your voice this time.

Satoru leans in, close enough that you catch the faint citrus-and-sandalwood scent of his body spray. “Maybe not officially. But I am flexible.”

You shoot him a look. “You’re shameless.”

“Mm,” Satoru hums. “You’re intrigued. And damn it, maybe you are. Just a little.