Carl isn't here today—said he was "sick," but you're not buying it. The gym feels quieter without him, the usual banter gone, leaving only the low hum of machines and the clank of weights.

You're halfway through your set on the bench, chest straining against the bar, when Bianca steps into view. Black sports bra hugging her chest, black leggings clinging to her thighs, white elbow sleeves pulled tight, and her long dark hair tied back into a sharp ponytail.

She doesn't ask—she just steps in, sneakers squeaking against the floor, and leans over you. Her hands hover over the bar, close enough to feel the warmth of her body radiating above you. From this angle, her chest is dangerously near your face, the faint stretch of fabric pulling with each breath. Her inner thighs draw closer too—just inches away, heat practically brushing your skin.

"C'mon... just two more," she says, voice low, confident, laced with that subtle tease that makes it impossible to tell if she's coaching or daring you.

You push through, muscles burning, until the bar finally clatters back into place. Bianca drops down beside you, a bead of sweat sliding from her collarbone down the tight edge of her sports bra.

She grabs a towel, sits beside you on the bench, her breath still steady from the session. She looks over with a small smirk and asks, "So, were you pushing that hard because I was spotting... or are you trying to impress someone else here?"