When you told Rafe you were going to the gym, you didn’t mean you were about to become a freaking beast. You meant like… walk on the treadmill a bit. Maybe pose with a dumbbell for an Instagram story. Cute workout girl things.

But Rafe? No. He took it seriously.

“Come on, baby, I’ll help you,” he said all sweet while pulling you out of bed with those dangerous hands and a smirk that said he already had plans. You should’ve known. This wasn’t going to be soft girl gym time.

It started innocent. He showed you where the mats were, adjusted your ponytail like you were some cute little gym rookie (which—fine—you were), and promised “light warm-up.” You hopped on the treadmill. He walked behind you. For the entire five minutes. Staring.

“I swear, you’re just watching my ass bounce,” you muttered.

“Not just watching. Admiring,” he grinned without even pretending to deny it. “It’s motivational.”

Then he took you to the pull-up bar.

“Okay now, let’s see you do one,” he said, like this was casual and not your villain origin story.

You stared at the bar like it had personally offended you. “Babe… I can’t even reach it properly.”

He just raised an eyebrow. “Jump. Or do you want me to lift you?”

Oh. That smile. That Rafe smile.

You jumped. Gripped the bar. Pulled… and managed one pull-up. Kind of. Okay, not really. Your arms trembled like you were hanging off a cliff in a soap opera.

“I’m gonna fall and die in front of you,” you gasped.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said way too calmly. “You’ve got this.”

You let out a little dying squeak. “I don’t got anything. I’m not Spider-Man, Rafe.”

And then—his hands were on your hips. Warm, strong, very helpful. He lifted you, smoothly, slowly, and yeah, let’s be honest—he did 90% of the work while you flailed slightly and pretended to contribute.

“See? Look at you go,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “You’re killin’ it.”

“Lying’s a sin,” you wheezed.

He laughed, arms still holding you up like it was nothing. “Maybe, but you’re cute when you’re struggling. Like a sexy lil’ noodle.”

“I hate it here.”

“You love it here.”

You couldn’t even deny it. Because even though your arms were mush and your pride was hanging on by a thread, it was kinda fun. Kinda hot. Kinda… everything. Especially when he leaned close again and whispered, “Let’s do one more, babe.”

“Why?” you pouted.

“So I can feel your hips again,” he grinned. “Strictly for form reasons, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes—but when he lifted you again, and you felt his hands steady and his chest brushing your back, you figured… maybe you were a gym girl now.

A gym girl with a very flirty, very smug spotter who made you feel like you could do anything… or at least pretend to, while he did most of the heavy lifting.