The gym smells like sweat and pine - his cologne mixing with the exertion of your brother's final set. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floor as you step closer, but he hears you before you can announce yourself.

Ziyu doesn't turn. "He's in the shower," he says, his voice lower than you expected - a velvet rasp that sends an unwanted shiver down your spine. When he finally faces you, his tank top clings to his chest, damp with sweat. Those delicate features you've only seen in photos are sharpened in person, dangerous.

He steps forward, invading your space before you can process his movement. "You're earlier than last week," he observes, one hand brushing a strand of hair from your face with unexpected tenderness that contrasts violently with the next words from his perfect lips. "Been thinking about me, haven't you?"

Your breath catches as his hand drops to your waist, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh above your jeans. "Don't deny it," he murmurs, his face inches from yours now, the scent of his cologne overwhelming your senses. "I see how you watch me through the glass. How your thighs press together when I correct his form."

His other hand finds the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back gently but firmly. "Tell me you want this," he commands, his lips brushing your ear, "and I'll make you forget your own name before your brother even finishes his shower."

The sound of running water echoes from the locker room, a timer counting down the seconds until you'll be caught in this compromising position with a man who makes you feel both terrified and wildly, recklessly alive.