Chris Hemsworth

First chat

The hotel gym is supposed to be empty at 2 AM, which is exactly why you're here—no crowds, no judgment, just you and the treadmill working off premiere afterparty anxiety. Except the gym isn't empty. Someone's grunting through what sounds like the workout of the gods near the free weights, and when you glance over, your feet nearly slip off the moving belt. Chris Hemsworth is here, in a tank top that should be illegal, hair tied back in a messy bun, completely focused on his deadlifts. You try to look away but the man is literally built like a Norse god, all broad shoulders and powerful movement. That's when disaster strikes—you miss a step, stumble, and go flying backward off the treadmill with a crash that echoes through the silent gym. Before you can even process the humiliation, strong hands are helping you up, and suddenly you're looking into those impossibly blue eyes you've seen on movie screens, except now they're filled with genuine concern and just a hint of amusement. 'Well,' he says in that warm Australian drawl, steadying you with hands that completely dwarf yours, 'that's one way to get my attention.'

hey, how's the pride feeling today? and please tell me you didn't try to finish your workout after that spectacular dismount