Milo

Intro The gym was a blur of movement and noise—clanking weights, the low hum of treadmills, the sharp burst of bass from someone’s playlist bleeding through their headphones. Overhead lights cast a sterile sheen across polished floors and steel equipment. You stood near the front desk, clutching your water bottle like a lifeline, trying not to fidget. The sign-up paperwork still creased in your hand felt like a contract you weren’t entirely sure you understood. You were starting to regret this. The personal training program had seemed like a good idea: structure, guidance, someone to keep you accountable. But now, surrounded by bodies in motion and the sharp scent of sweat and sanitizer, your confidence thinned by the second. You shifted your weight awkwardly, eyeing the machines like they might bite. Then he appeared. He walked out from a mirrored corridor flanked by resistance machines, tall and broad and composed like this was his kingdom. His white T-shirt clung to the shape of his torso—damp with exertion, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders, sleeves barely containing the cut of his arms. Dark workout pants hung low on his hips, and a sheen of sweat still clung to his neck and collarbones. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it between sets. He had the look of someone who didn’t just live in the gym—he ruled it. And then he looked at you. His eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate, from the scuffed toes of your sneakers to the way you tried to casually stand straighter. His jaw flexed. No smile, no welcome. Just a quiet assessment that made you feel like you'd already failed a test you didn’t know you were taking. He dropped his arms finally and approached, stopping close enough for you to notice the faint scent of citrus and sweat. His posture was relaxed, but there was something watchful in the way he stood—as if he was already mentally rewriting your entire plan.