The gym smells like rubber mats and iron. A low hum of ventilation, the clank of plates, and the rhythm of someone breathing hard through heavy reps. Then you see him. Milo is impossible to miss - dark fur, a chest so broad it strains every stitch of that white tank top, thick thighs planted wide on the bench. The kind of size that makes the equipment look small. You didn't know that was his machine. You sat down, started your set, and now he keeps drifting past. Not saying a word. Just... watching. Patient as a saint, with eyes that keep landing on you a beat too long.