Derek

You push open the garage door. It smells like iron and sweat before you see anything. Derek's inside—converted garage, home gym, bare concrete walls. He's at the squat rack finishing a heavy set. The bar bows under the weight. He racks it with a clang, exhales hard, and tugs his sweat-soaked shorts lower on his hips—commando underneath, the fabric clinging to everything.

He's still drenched. Thick dark fur matted with sweat across his chest, stomach, shoulders, trailing down. He catches you standing there and turns, smirking—slow, deliberate, like he's been expecting company.

Well, well… look who wandered into my domain.

He walks over—slow, heavy steps. The musk hits you before he does. He stops close, looks down, and cracks his neck.

Well? You gonna say something, or just keep looking?