Second Glance
The next day I told myself I was going back to fitARL for the routine, not the view. Work had been brutal... another twelve-hour stretch of spreadsheets and client calls that left my eyes burning. I needed the iron, the endorphins, the clean burn of sweat to remind me I still had control over something. That was the story I fed myself as I scanned the QR code again at 6:45 p.m., the January dark already thick outside.
The gym was a little busier tonight. A few more guys on the benches, the familiar clank of plates, low music pulsing through hidden speakers. I changed quickly, avoiding eye contact in the mirror because I didn’t want to catch myself looking hopeful. Ridiculous. I’m thirty-six. I don’t do hopeful.
I started with legs: Romanian deadlifts, heavy enough to shut my brain off. Halfway through my third set I felt it: that prickle on the back of my neck. Someone watching. I racked the bar, straightened, and there he was.
Steph.
He was over by the cable machines doing tricep pushdowns, back to me, but every few reps he’d glance sideways in the big mirror. Our eyes met in the reflection. He didn’t look away this time. Instead he gave that same lopsided grin, the one that said he knew he’d been caught and didn’t particularly mind.
I nodded once, cool, detached, and went back to my set. But my focus was shot. Every time I bent forward I could see him in my peripheral: blond buzz cut damp with sweat, tank clinging to the deep grooves between his pecs and lats, forearms flexing with each pull. Compact, powerful, the kind of build that looks carved rather than built. And still that clumsy energy underneath, like he was one wrong step away from dropping everything and laughing about it.
When I moved to hamstring curls he appeared at the machine next to mine, casual as anything.
“Evening, Avie,” he said, voice bright. “You stalking me now or is this just good timing?”
I snorted. “Two-minute walk from my place. Hardly stalking.”
“Fair.” He adjusted the pin on his machine, then shot me a look. “You always this serious when you lift, or is that just your face’s default setting?”
“My face is resting bitch face,” I deadpanned. “It’s genetic.”
He laughed loud, unselfconscious. A couple heads turned. He didn’t care. “Noted. I’ll try not to take it personally when you glare at me.”
“I don’t glare.”
“You totally glare. But it’s hot, so you’re forgiven.”
The words landed like a dumbbell to the chest. Casual. Playful. But there it was... flirtation, unmistakable. I raised an eyebrow, testing.
“Careful, kid. I might take that the wrong way.”
He shrugged one shoulder, unbothered. “Take it however you want. I’m just stating facts.” Then he winced as he pulled too hard on the cable and the weight stack rattled. “Fuck... okay, maybe don’t listen to me about facts. Clearly I’m an idiot.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. A real one, low and surprised. He beamed like he’d won something.
We ended up finishing our workouts around the same time. He wiped down his bench, I racked my last plates, and somehow we were walking toward the locker room together. Small talk came easy with him: weather (shit), traffic on 66 (always shit), how the new smoothie place on Wilson was overpriced but worth it once. He talked with his hands, animated, tripping over his own shoelace on the way to the lockers and catching himself on the wall with a dramatic “Whoa, Jesus, feet, cooperate.”
“You always this graceful?” I asked.
“Only when cute bald guys are watching,” he fired back without missing a beat.
There it was again. Not subtle. My pulse kicked up anyway.
In the locker room he peeled off his soaked tank without ceremony. Smooth chest, defined abs, a faint tan line where his shorts sat low. No hair anywhere except a neat happy trail disappearing under the waistband. Uncut, I noted automatically when he dropped the shorts to change... soft but thick, hanging heavy. He didn’t hide, didn’t flaunt. Just normal. Comfortable in his skin.
I turned away to give him privacy I wasn’t sure he wanted, pulling on my hoodie. When I looked back he was already dressed, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder.
“Heading out?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Same. Want company for the two-minute walk? I’m parked like three blocks past your place anyway.”
I hesitated for half a second. Then: “Sure.”
Outside the cold bit hard. We walked shoulder to shoulder, breath fogging between us. He kept up a steady stream of chatter: something about the Caps game last night, how he’d burned popcorn in the microwave at 2 a.m. and set off the smoke alarm, how his girlfriend had texted him a passive-aggressive “we need to talk” at lunch and he still hadn’t replied.
I listened more than I spoke. That’s my default... listen, ask the right question, let people fill in their own blanks. Consultant habit. But with him it felt different. Natural.
At my building I stopped. “This is me.”
He looked up at the brick facade, then back at me. “Nice. You live alone?”
“Yeah. You?”
“With my girl. Well... sort of. She’s been talking about moving to LA for a job. Big offer. I’m… not thrilled.”
He said it lightly, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Uncertainty. Maybe hurt.
I nodded, careful. “Sounds complicated.”
“It is.” He shifted his weight, glanced down the street, then back at me. “Anyway. Thanks for the walk. See you tomorrow, Avie?”
The way he said my name... soft, like he was trying it out... did something low in my gut.
“Yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
He grinned, gave a little two-finger salute, and jogged off into the dark, sneakers slapping pavement.
I stood there longer than I should have, watching him disappear around the corner.
For the first time in years, the thought of tomorrow actually felt good.
And dangerous.
... To be continued
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