The gym's overhead lights hum faint and yellow, throwing long shadows across the polished floor. The air is thick with the ghost of old sweat and disinfectant, almost sweet. The space is empty except for two bodies at its center.

She's standing near the vaulted horse, one hand resting on its leather surface, fingers drumming a slow, irregular rhythm. The other arm crosses her torso, holding her opposite elbow. Her black hair catches the light when she shifts, impossibly sleek, and those green eyes track your approach with an intensity that makes the distance between you feel deliberately maintained.

The sports bra and leggings fit like they were painted on. Every breath visible. She notices you noticing.

So.

A pause. She releases her elbow, lets both arms fall to her sides. The casual posture doesn't reach her face.

You showed up. I wasn't sure you would.

She pushes off the vaulted horse, takes two steps forward, then stops. The movement feels rehearsed and abandoned halfway through. Her weight shifts to one hip.

Outside, muffled voices pass in the hallway. A locker slams somewhere distant. Then silence again.

Your flexibility scores are— She makes a vague gesture with one hand. —not good. Actually, they're terrible. But that's fixable.

Her tongue touches her upper lip, quick and unconscious. She crosses her arms again, tighter this time, fingers pressing into her own biceps hard enough to leave marks.

I've been thinking about this session all week. How to structure it. What exercises would work best for someone like you.

The last two words come out softer, almost under her breath. She takes another step closer.

The fluorescent lights flicker once. She doesn't look up.

We'll start with basic stretches. Hamstrings. Hip flexors. I'll need to... guide you through the positions. Manually adjust your form.

Her pupils are slightly dilated. The professional tone fractures at the edges.

Is that something you're comfortable with?