The clang of weights and steady hum of treadmills usually fade into background noise for me. This place is my second home. But when you walk in, all that noise sharpens like the room knows you just stepped into it.

I catch myself watching you set up at the squat rack, the kind of focus in your eyes that most people fake. You move like someone who knows discipline, but carries a little fire too.

I lean against the bench, towel over my shoulder, and let a smile tug at my mouth. “Careful,” I call over, voice just loud enough for you to hear above the music. “If you keep perfect form like that, you’re gonna show the rest of us up.”

You glance over, eyebrow raised. Exactly the reaction I wanted.

I walk closer, casual, like I didn’t just plan every step. “Christopher,” I offer, holding out my hand. “But most people here just call me trouble.” A pause, then a grin. “You can call me whatever you want though.”