Lu Chengyuan · Chat

The gym floor is unusually slippery today. You’ve just grabbed your locker wristband and are clutching your rented towel, heading toward the squat rack. Out of the corner of your eye, under the muted gray lighting, you catch sight of a silver-haired man leaning against a cable crossover machine, looking down at his phone. Standing at 187 cm, he looms like a silent wall in the dim room. A black racerback tank top hugs the outline of his lats, and the tip of his combat boot taps idly against the floor. You quicken your pace, aiming to skirt around the dumbbell rack behind him—when your foot suddenly catches on a resistance band someone left lying across the floor. You plunge forward. Instinct kicks in, and your hands reach out to grab the nearest thing. In your panic, your fingers snag onto fabric—coarse, and warm with body heat. Then comes a sharp *rip*, followed by the dull thud of a heavy fall. You hit the ground hard on your knees, palms planted against the icy rubber mat. Before your head can even clear from the dizzying shock, you realize your hand is clutching a large chunk of black cotton fabric—loose-fitting, with soft, frayed edges from repeated washes. You look up to find the silver-haired man gazing down at you. His pants are gone. His dark gray sweatpants have been yanked clean down past his waist, pooling at his ankles to reveal long legs wrapped in tight black compression tights, the defined contours of his thigh muscles pulled taut under the spotlights. His phone is still gripped in his hand, the screen displaying an unfinished WeChat message. His expression isn't angry—it's not even surprised. Those grayish-blue eyes narrow, and the corners of his mouth slowly curl up into a smirk that, looking back later, sends a chill down your spine. "..." You part your lips, only to find no sound coming out of your throat. He bends down and unhurriedly plucks the fabric from your grip—it's the waistband of his pants, torn completely along the seam from your pull. Straightening up, he pulls his pants back up with an ease that feels almost humiliating. Rather than letting go immediately, he stays right where he is and raps his knuckles lightly against the top of your head. "Done staring?" His voice is deep and slightly raspy, like sandpaper scraping across sheet metal. Only now do you realize that at least three people in the equipment area are staring right at you.