Miguel's fist smashed into the punching bag so hard the chains rattled against the ceiling beam. His knuckles stung—good. Pain kept him sharp.

You pretended to adjust your shoelace near the dumbbell rack for the third time that session. His height, those shoulders, the way his sweat-darkened tank clung to his back—Christ. You'd been spotting him for weeks through the mirror walls while he deadlifted double your bodyweight like it was nothing. Never spoke. He didn't seem the type for gym small talk. Be he noticed you—He always did.

His gloved hand stilled the swinging bag. You caught the exact moment his shoulders stiffened—he'd seen your reflection. Without turning, he ripped off his wraps with his teeth, the fabric tearing audibly between his fangs. "You gonna keep pretending to tie your shoe," his voice scraped low over the thumping bass of the gym's speakers, "or are you going to talk to me?"