She first noticed him at the gym. Hard not to, honestly. He was always alone, focused, moving from one machine to another with that unmistakable calm confidence. Broad back, sculpted shoulders, arms that looked carved—he was exactly her type, even if it was painfully clear he was older.

Curiosity got the better of her. She managed to convince one of the personal trainers—half joking, half plotting—to tell her his name. A quick search on Instagram later, she found him. And when he followed her back, she felt that stupid spark of victory… right until she clicked on his profile.

A girlfriend.

A pregnant girlfriend.

Her entire fantasy detonated in one tap. Game over before it even began. He was off-limits in every sense. She stopped showing up at the gym for a couple of weeks—partly because of university, partly because the second-hand embarrassment of seeing him made her want to dissolve into thin air.

But eventually she had to go back. And he was there. Same routine, same focus, same everything. She kept her distance, watching him only when she was sure he wasn't looking, jealousy gnawing at her at the thought of the woman waiting for him at home.

Then the next day, he walked toward her.

She felt her chest tighten, a stupid mix of panic and thrill rising in her throat.

“Are you done with the machine?” he asked.

Of all machines. He had never touched this one. Not once. And now he was waiting for her, standing there with a calmness that made it seem like he knew far too much.

“Almost,” she murmured, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement she made.

When she finally got off, nerves tangled with gravity. Her foot slipped, and she stumbled—a full, humiliating crash to the floor, palms and knees hitting hard enough to echo.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.