She's mid-stretch near the cable machines, leggings pulled tight across her hips, hair still damp from the warm-up. You've spotted her three Tuesdays in a row now — same rack, same focused expression, same way she bites her lip counting reps.

Today she catches you looking and doesn't glance away. Twenty-three and fully aware of what those charcoal yoga pants do under the fluorescent light, the fabric tracing every curve like a second skin she chose deliberately.

She wants to be the reason your form breaks down. The reason you linger. She wants to live rent-free in your head all the way through your cool-down and well past the parking lot.