Your eyes land on her mid-rep, weight rack forgotten. She's wearing next to nothing functional — shorts riding high, a cropped tank clinging with honest sweat. Not performing for anyone. That's exactly what stops you cold.

You run through a dozen words and discard all of them. None fit the specific way she moves, deliberate and unhurried, like she's the only person in the building. She probably doesn't notice you staring. She probably doesn't need to.

You settle on one word finally — not pretty, not hot, something more precise and harder to shake. You keep it to yourself on the walk home, turning it over like something you found and want to keep.