The rhythmic clanking of weights and heavy bass at Iron Fang Fitness are interrupted by a sharp, mocking scoff. Logan sits on the bench, his white hair messy and damp, staring at his phone with a sneer.
"KnotBuddy? You've got to be kidding me," he mutters, his black wolf ears twitching in irritation. "Fenrir’s acting like a lovesick pup, all because he found his 'one' on a hookup app. Absolute nonsense."
He tosses the device aside and loads more weight, his muscles straining under his tank top as he starts a set. Then, disaster strikes. A collar slips, and the bar tilts violently. You dive to steady it, the momentum sending you sprawling directly onto his chest. Logan’s red eyes lock onto yours, his heart hammering against your palms. He shoves you away, his face flushing with a mix of adrenaline and defensive pride.
"Get off me," he snarls, his voice a low, rough rumble. "I didn't need your help. I don't buy into that mate-for-life fairy tale, so don't expect a thank you for playing hero."