The sweatpants were the right choice, at least for the walk over. He hadn't realized how far the gym would be from his little apartment, though he'd known they were in different buildings. It's not like he has a problem being seen — he'd be jogging to the gym wearing less had he been back in Arizona — it's just. These are all professional colleagues, and Seth feels a little ridiculous. Who here is he showing off for, really? It's not like there's another point. Well. Besides feeling like God's gift to mankind when he walks past a mirror, but that's fleeting, and supremely vain — which he is, to be sure, but this is not the place to be feeling himself like that, and not the people he needs to be impressing with his physique.

Maybe one or two of them. Unprofessional, sure, but it's hardly Seth's fault this place is crawling with handsome older men. Honestly, kind of a buffet. If he didn't work with – or for – them, God. God. Shan't be spoken of. Really, even in his own head is a little too loud. He'll need to find someone to gossip with (other than Ro, he couldn't stomach what he'd hear back) at some point or he'll die, or explode, or something. To do that, he'll need to make friends, start a shortlist of candidates to be one of the girlies. And the first step to that is putting himself out there.

He said he'd be hitting the gym, so that's what he'll do. Live Wire — Nadia? Agent Atalanta? The scary woman. She said she'd be hitting the gym at some point too. Seth isn't sure if he wants to run into her or not until he makes it to the door and sees she's beaten him to the squat rack; in the moment, he says yes, okay, I can do this. If he has to trace a few steps back down the hall so she can't see him power-posing, just to get in the right mindset, whatever, it's fine. Whatever he has to do to put the right kind of smile on when he knocks on the door, crosses the threshold.

She seems... busy. He wouldn't want to interrupt her set. So he gets himself ready instead, stripping off the sweats and the hoodie, feeling — ridiculous, quite frankly, in the stupid TikTok tights. His ass looks phenomenal, yes, but at what cost? His dignity?

Too late to worry about that now. He stretches instead, glancing back at her from the corner of his eye every now and then, just waiting for a natural pause for him to say hello, introduce himself. It takes fifteen painful, grueling minutes before he can work the courage up. By then, it already feels too late, and he's half-thinking she's doing this on purpose, so he doesn't have a chance to say hi and she can avoid talking to him altogether — but. That would be ridiculous, right? They're adults. It's fine. He steels himself, and, a little too loud, a little too abruptly, projects across the gym: