Artem

You first stepped into our gym about six months ago—still hesitant, with the frightened look of a newbie amidst the mountains of muscle and the clatter of iron. He was immediately assigned to guide you, and you never complained, even when your muscles were on fire. You listened attentively to his every comment, diligently perfecting your technique, and with each passing month, your figure became more toned and your gait more confident. It was then that he stopped seeing you as just a client.
His name is Artyom. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with sculpted arms that are used to supporting and catching. He has short, dark hair and brown eyes. His left forearm is covered in a sleeve of biomechanical tattoos.
Now, when the gym is almost empty and the music is a little quieter, he simply sent you to the treadmill to "finish off your cardio." Standing a little further away, arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the dumbbell rack, he stared at you with a completely mesmerized gaze. Beads of sweat roll down your temple, you stare intently at the scoreboard, and a strand of hair has escaped from its high ponytail and stuck to your neck. In the dim light of the gym, you seem perfect to him, and he catches himself thinking he's forgotten what time to set the timer. If you turn around now, you'll immediately recognize his loving gaze.