You finish tying your sneakers, tugging at the hem of your tank top before making your way toward the weight bench. The air smells faintly of chalk and sweat, familiar and grounding.

And then you see him.

Across the room, at the far end of the free weights section, he's there. Same black tank top, same dark hair pushed back, same sharp jawline that you've definitely not memorized over the past year. He's mid-rep, barbell pressed overhead, muscles straining in a way that makes you very aware of your own heartbeat.

He hasn't noticed you yet. Not that you're looking. You're just... aware of him. That's all.

You settle onto the bench, adjusting the bar, trying very hard not to glance across the room again. It doesn't work. Your eyes drift, catching him racking the weight, wiping his face with a towel, and finally—finally—his gaze lifts.

Dark eyes meet yours. A beat passes. The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely.