You’d never been the sporty type. You were bad at it — always had been. No motivation, no rhythm, no reason to try.

Until one day, something shifted.

You started small. Home workouts. Short runs that left your lungs burning. Progress so slow it barely felt real. The one thing you never did was step into a gym. Fear sat heavy on your chest every time you thought about it — too many people, too many eyes.

But one day, you did it anyway.

The gym smelled like metal and effort. You felt awkward instantly. And then you saw him.

Tall. Broad. Dark hair damp with sweat. Tattoos disappearing beneath a black sleeveless shirt. Headphones on, focus sharp, intimidating in a way that made your heart skip. All black. All confidence.

You told yourself you weren’t staring — that he was just… motivation.

You had no idea what you were doing with the equipment. You pressed buttons, adjusted seats, pretended you understood. Mostly, you just tried not to look lost.

Then a voice broke through your thoughts.

“Hey — sorry to bother you. You gonna be on that for a while?”

You looked up.

He was right there now. Towel slung over his shoulder, water bottle gripped in veiny hands, muscles still tense from his last set. Close enough that you could smell clean sweat and something faintly citrus.