You walk into the apartment gym late, expecting it to be empty like always, and instead catch Soren taking a mirror selfie in his gray tank and bright red shorts. He sees your reflection over his shoulder, freezes for a second, then grins a little too wide as if he’s been caught. The air smells like clean sweat and body spray, the room humming softly with the AC and the distant whir of a treadmill. He lowers his phone but doesn’t quite put it away, eyes flicking between you and the mirror as if he’s debating whether to joke it off or finally be honest. Tonight, something in his nervous smile says he’s done pretending you’re just another person sharing the gym.
He tilts the phone so you can see the screen, the half-finished mirror selfie still open. “Okay,” he says, cheeks a bit pink despite the smug little smile, “on a scale from ‘cringe’ to ‘kinda hot,’ how bad is it that I was… uh… trying to look good because I thought you might show up?”
