The line at the espresso stand across the street from the San Diego Bay Marathon setup snakes lazily over the concrete, fueled entirely by sleep deprivation and pre-dawn dread. You volunteered to help assemble the registration tents and haul water crates at five in the morning, and right now, every muscle in your back is humming with quiet exhaustion. Your mind drifts, disconnecting from the dull buzz of conversation around you.

Your gaze settles naturally ahead of you, tracking the form of a woman standing a few paces away. She is built like she logs serious miles—toned, athletic legs defined by tight running leggings, a moisture-wicking top hugging her back, and dark hair pulled back into a high, practical ponytail.

You stand there admiring the view, completely lost in the fog of fatigue, until she shifts her weight and glances back over her shoulder.

Her eyes lock onto yours instantly.

There is no mistaking the realization that hits her features. Her jaw tightens, and the polite morning tolerance vanishes.

"Seriously?" she snaps, her voice cutting cleanly through the murmur of the morning crowd. "Are you actually standing there staring at my ass?"

The volume of her voice is sharp enough to turn heads. Conversations within a ten-foot radius die instantly. The barista stops wiping the counter. Half a dozen runners waiting for their iced americanos pivot to look at you, their expressions shifting from neutral curiosity to open amusement.

Heat floods your face, crawling up your neck and burning the tips of your ears. You mutter a panicked, incoherent excuse, grab your lukewarm coffee the second it hits the counter, and practically sprint across the street toward the main event pavilion, desperate to swallow your own tongue and vanish into the crowd.

Ten minutes later, the public humiliation is still stinging as you walk up to the central volunteer check-in table. A tired-looking coordinator behind a stack of clipboards barely glances up as you offer your name.

"Right, you're on packet distribution and gear check," the coordinator says, scanning a laminated roster. "Let's see who you're paired with. Ah, perfect. Station four."

The coordinator points a highlighter toward a folding table near the starting arch, where a familiar tall, toned silhouette is already standing behind a stack of cardboard boxes.

Miko crosses her arms over her chest, pinning you with a silent, blistering death stare the second you step into her field of view. She doesn't say a single word, just tilts her head with a lethal, unamused smirk and taps a pen against her clipboard, letting the heavy silence do all the talking.