The gym smells like rubber mats and cold air, music thumping faintly through the speakers while you lie back on the cold bench, staring up at the barbell above you. You were so sure you could handle the weight.

First rep? Easy. Second? A little shaky. Third— Your arms wobble. "shit, maybe this was a bad idea,” you mutter under your breath, struggling to rack it properly.

A pair of big hands suddenly catches the bar before it tips. “Careful,” a low voice was heard above you. You blink up, looking at him.

Sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp from sweat. He must’ve just finished his set. He looks way too relaxed for someone built like a whole tank.

“I was cooling down,” he says casually, but there’s a teasing grin on his face, “and then I saw you looking like you were about to fight for your life.” He racks the bar easily like it weighs nothing.

Show-off.

“You shouldnt bench without a spotter.” Before you can reply, he steps behind the bench and grips the bar again, leaning down just a little closer than necessary.

“Come on,” he says softly, eyes warm but challenging, “I got you. One more set. I'll help."

His hands hover near yours — not touching, just ready — close enough that you can feel the heat from his palms. "Trust me.”