The Weight of Small Talk
I went back the next evening, same time, same routine. Told myself it was discipline. The truth was simpler: I wanted to see if he’d be there again.
He was.
This time he was already on the bench press when I walked in from the locker room, shirt soaked through, blond hair dark with sweat at the temples. He had a spotter. An older guy I didn’t recognize, but the set ended and the spotter wandered off to the water fountain. Steph racked the bar, sat up, caught my eye across the room, and lifted his chin in greeting. No words. Just that small, knowing tilt of his head that made my stomach do something stupid.
I nodded back, kept it neutral, and headed for the squat rack. But ten minutes later he was beside me, towel slung over his shoulder, breathing still a little heavy.
“Mind if I work in?” he asked, gesturing to the empty bar I’d just unloaded.
“Go for it.”
He loaded plates while I rested between sets. We didn’t talk much at first... just the quiet rhythm of lifting, the metallic clink, the occasional grunt. Comfortable silence. I liked it more than I expected.
After his third set he wiped his face and leaned against the rack, catching his breath. “You always train alone?”
“Mostly,” I said. “Hotels don’t leave much room for buddies.”
“Travel a lot?”
“Too much. Consulting. You get used to it.”
He tilted his head. “Do you like it?”
I shrugged. “Pays well. Keeps me moving.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Smart kid. I met his eyes: clear, curious, no judgment. “No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”
He nodded like he understood more than I’d said. Then, casual as anything: “My girl’s been pushing the LA thing harder. Interviewed last week. Got a second round next Tuesday.”
There it was again. The girlfriend. The complication.
I kept my voice even. “You going with her?”
He laughed, short and humorless. “She hasn’t asked. And I haven’t offered. DC’s home. Family’s here. Friends. This gym.” He glanced around like the place mattered more than he’d admit. “I don’t want to start over in a city where I know nobody.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought about it.”
“Every damn day.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit I was starting to notice. “She says it’s a great opportunity. Big firm, good money, sunshine. I say… yeah, but it’s three thousand miles from everything I actually care about.”
I didn’t offer advice. That’s not how I work. Instead: “What’s the part that scares you most? The distance, or the idea of her going without you?”
He blinked, surprised by the question. Then he exhaled slowly. “Both, maybe. If she goes and I stay… we’re probably done. If I go with her and hate it… I’m stuck resenting her for dragging me out there. Either way feels like losing.”
I let the words hang. Didn’t fill the silence. Consultants know the power of a well-timed pause.
After a moment he gave a small, crooked smile. “You’re good at that. Asking the exact thing that makes me actually think instead of just bitch.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He laughed again, softer this time. “You’re kind of a dick, Avie, but in a nice way.”
“High praise.”
We finished our sets, moved to different areas, but kept orbiting each other. He’d glance over while doing pull-ups; I’d catch myself watching the way his back flared when he rowed. By the time we were both cooling down on the treadmills side by side, the gym had emptied out except for us and one guy blasting death metal through his earbuds.
Steph killed his incline walk first, stepped off, stretched his arms overhead. His tank rode up, exposing a strip of smooth, hard stomach. My eyes followed it automatically. He caught me looking. Didn’t say anything... just held the stretch a second longer, then dropped his arms with a smirk.
“Shower?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
We walked to the locker room together. Same routine: he stripped without hesitation, towel around his waist, chatting about nothing: the new pre-workout he was trying, how the Caps were choking in the third period last night, how he’d accidentally ordered decaf this morning and nearly cried. I listened, answered when I needed to, let my eyes wander when he wasn’t looking.
Under the showers we took adjacent stalls. No curtains, just half-walls. Steam rose between us. I kept my gaze forward, but I could hear him... the soft hiss of water on skin, the quiet sigh he let out when the hot spray hit his shoulders. My cock twitched once, traitorously. I willed it down. Not here. Not yet.
When we dressed he was slower than usual, pulling on his hoodie like he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Outside, the cold slapped us again. We started walking the same direction.
Halfway to my building he said, out of nowhere: “Thanks for listening earlier. About the LA thing. Most guys would’ve just told me what to do.”
“I don’t know what you should do,” I said honestly. “Only you do.”
He stopped under a streetlight, breath clouding. Looked at me...really looked. “You’re different, you know that?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“Not pushy. Not fake. Just… there.” He shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s nice.”
My chest tightened. Not lust this time. Something warmer. More dangerous.
We reached my door again. He lingered on the sidewalk.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” I confirmed.
He smiled... small, real and jogged off into the night.
I stood there watching him go, heart thudding harder than it had during any set.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I wasn’t thinking about getting him naked.
I was thinking about what it might feel like to hold him after.
And that scared me more than anything.
... To be continued
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