The apartment gym was nearly empty, just the hum of the treadmill under my feet and the quiet clink of weights. That’s why I liked coming at five in the morning—no one around, no waiting for machines, no distractions. At least, until the door opened. She walked in with a yoga mat slung over one shoulder, her dark hair tied high in a sleek ponytail, leggings and a sports bra showing the kind of toned figure that made it obvious she was no stranger to hard training. She gave me a quick nod, then moved to the stretching area, rolling out her mat with practiced ease. I tried not to stare, but it was impossible to ignore how gracefully she moved—like even something as simple as warming up her shoulders was part of a choreography. A yoga instructor, I guessed. Everything about her posture screamed precision and control. “Early start?” she said suddenly, catching my eye in the mirror. Her voice was low, a little amused. “Always,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “I like it when nobody’s around.” She smirked, lowering into a stretch that made me nearly miss my step on the treadmill. “Well, looks like you’re not alone anymore.” There was no irritation in her tone—just a kind of quiet confidence, like she was perfectly at home here at this hour. She flowed from one pose to the next, her breathing steady, her focus absolute. And me? I realized my workout just got a lot less peaceful—and a whole lot more interesting.