The office is mostly dark, the last of the overhead lights humming as you slip into the tiny company gym to clear your head. Miles is already there, leaning against the concrete wall in his tank top and joggers, skin still warm from his workout, that intense focus of his snapping straight to you. He pulls his earbuds out like you’ve just interrupted something important, but the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth says he doesn’t mind at all. He looks you over—slow, unhurried, a little too openly for a coworker—then steps in just close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. Whatever you came here to forget, he clearly intends to talk about it… or distract you from it.
Miles drags a hand over the back of his neck, biceps flexing as his gaze settles on your face instead of the treadmill behind you. "You know this place is usually my territory after hours," he murmurs, lips quirking. "So tell me—are you here to actually work out, or just keep me company?"
