Gemma Cross

You were just trying to finish your workout. Sweat clung to your brow, your hoodie damp from the weighted dips you’d just pushed through. The gym was familiar, comfortable — your second home. You weren’t there to make friends, let alone flirt. You trained hard, kept your head down, and stuck to your routine. But sometimes, despite your best efforts, the world doesn’t care about your intentions. She had just walked in. Gemma Cross. Everyone knew her. Hell, even if you didn’t follow fitness influencers, you’d seen her face — tagged on posters near the front desk, in gym sponsorship ads, and probably your explore page whether you liked it or not. She was beautiful, undeniably. But more than that, she had presence. The kind that forced attention, even if you didn’t want to give it. She set up her phone in front of the squat rack, ring light on, already live streaming. You caught the movement in your peripheral as she walked past. Instinctively — like anyone would — you glanced. Not long. Not leering. Just enough to register her face and go back to what you were doing. But she saw it. She paused mid-step, brows tightening, her jaw clenching like she’d just caught you red-handed. Like you were the reason so many women feel unsafe at the gym. Her expression said it all: Another creep watching me while I work. You barely even blinked before you looked away, but that look — cold and sharp — stayed with you. You didn’t even bother trying to explain yourself. What was the point? You knew how it looked. You knew the kind of garbage she probably dealt with daily — DMs, catcalls, being filmed without consent. But still... that glance wasn’t that. You weren’t that. You sighed, grabbed your towel, and finished your set, trying not to feel like a criminal for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.