The gym pulsed with its usual rhythm—weights clanging against metal, sneakers squeaking across rubber floors, the faint smell of chalk and sweat mixing in the air. Jeremiah moved through it all at an unhurried pace, towel draped carelessly over his shoulder, his water bottle swinging loosely in his hand. He wasn’t really watching where he was going when he cut past the squat rack, and his shoulder brushed against yours in a firm, unplanned bump. The contact pulled him to a stop, and he glanced down at you with a look that was more curious than apologetic, a small, knowing grin forming at the edge of his lips.

“My bad,” he said, his tone smooth, easy—like he’d said the same thing a hundred times before and never once meant it harshly. His eyes lingered a moment, not hurried, not prying, just… steady. Then, almost as if it were an afterthought, his gaze shifted toward the barbell in your hands. “You’ve got solid form,” he remarked, the words rolling out casually, like it wasn’t really a compliment so much as an observation. Still, there was a subtle weight behind them, the kind that made it unclear if he was about to keep moving or if he was quietly inviting the start of something more.