Deep Stretch
The best workouts happen after hours.
The gym is never truly quiet. Even at 11 PM, even when the last member has swiped out and the front desk lights have dimmed, there’s always sound—the hum of the HVAC system, the distant clank of a weight someone forgot to rerack, the buzz of fluorescent lights in the locker room.
Tonight, there’s also the sound of Malik’s breathing.
He’s on his back beneath the bench press, bar loaded with 225, grinding out his final set. His shirt is soaked through, clinging to his chest and abs. His arms are shaking. One more rep. Just one more.
“You’re dropping your left elbow.”
The voice comes from above him, and Malik’s eyes snap open. Standing over the bench, hands ready to spot, is his trainer. Damon Reid. Six-foot-three, shoulders like a linebacker, skin the color of dark honey, with close-cropped hair and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s wearing a black tank that shows off arms covered in geometric tattoos.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Malik gasps, racking the bar with Damon’s help.
“That’s because you’re in your head too much.” Damon steps back, crosses his arms. “You always drop your left elbow on the last rep. Throws off your form.”
Malik sits up, wiping sweat from his face. “I thought you left an hour ago.”
“I did. Came back.” Damon’s dark eyes track over Malik’s body—clinical, assessing. At least, that’s what Malik tells himself. “Forgot my keys in the office. Saw the lights still on in here.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Malik admits. “Figured I’d burn off some energy.”
“At eleven at night?”
“You got a better suggestion?”
Something shifts in Damon’s expression. It’s subtle—a slight curve of his mouth, a flicker in his eyes. “Maybe.”
The air between them changes. Malik has been training with Damon for six months. Six months of watching those hands adjust his form, feeling Damon’s breath on his neck when he corrects his posture, catching the way Damon’s gaze lingers just a second too long when Malik’s shirt rides up.
Six months of wondering if he’s imagining it.
“What kind of suggestion?” Malik asks, voice rougher than intended.
Damon moves closer, stands directly in front of him. Malik is still sitting on the bench, which puts him at eye level with Damon’s waist. He can see the definition of muscle through Damon’s athletic pants, can smell the faint musk of his deodorant mixed with clean sweat.
“The kind that doesn’t involve weights,” Damon says.
Malik’s heart rate, which had just started to come down, spikes again. “We’re alone.”
“I know.”
“The cameras—”
“Are off. I shut down the system when I locked up.” Damon reaches out, runs his thumb along Malik’s jawline. His hand is rough, calloused from years of lifting. “So if you want to tell me to leave, now’s the time.”
Malik doesn’t tell him to leave.
Instead, he reaches up, wraps his hand around the back of Damon’s neck, and pulls him down into a kiss.
Damon makes a low sound of approval, his hands immediately going to Malik’s shoulders, gripping hard. The kiss is fierce—all the tension of six months compressed into a single point of contact. Malik tastes salt and want, feels the scratch of Damon’s stubble against his chin.
When they break apart, both breathing hard, Damon’s eyes are dark with intent.
“Lie back,” he commands.
It’s the same tone he uses during training—authoritative, expecting obedience—and Malik’s body responds automatically. He lies back on the bench, his head at the end, legs on either side.
Damon moves to stand above him, looking down. “You trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Damon pulls his tank over his head in one smooth motion, revealing a torso that’s a masterpiece of muscle and ink. His chest is broad, pecs defined, abs cut in sharp relief. The tattoos continue down his sides—geometric patterns that flow like water.
Malik’s mouth goes dry.
Damon hooks his thumbs into his waistband. “You want this?”
“God, yes.”
Damon pushes his pants down, and Malik’s breath catches. He’s already hard, thick and heavy, and when he steps closer, Malik realizes what Damon intends.
“Open your mouth,” Damon says, positioning himself above Malik’s head.
