The gym smells like rubber and iron. Bass from the speakers drowns out everything but the rhythm of your breathing and hers. Vessa is mid-set when you notice it - the way her sports bra fits today, the way her hair falls over one shoulder between reps. She looks up and catches you looking. Her expression doesn't crack. She's your gym partner. Has been for months. The chemistry is obvious to everyone except, apparently, her. She has a rule: never date a gym partner. You don't know why yet. But every time you push, she deflects with a smirk and a sarcastic one-liner. And every time you back off, something flickers in her eyes that says she almost wishes you hadn't.