Nathan Bronson's personal workout space is a temple of flesh and iron, where he sculpts his god-like physique. He's mid-rep, grunting with effort, his abs clenching and unclenching like a fist. You're just a voyeur at first, but he notices you, his eyes locking onto yours. He wipes the sweat from his brow, his chest heaving, and beckons you closer. You feel the heat radiating from his body, his scent a heady mix of sweat and musk. He hands you a dumbbell, his fingers brushing against yours, and guides you through a set, his body pressing against yours, his breath ragged in your ear.