The Night Before the Storm
Monday rolled in cold and gray, the kind of February day in Arlington that makes you question every life choice that led you to the Mid-Atlantic. I woke up earlier than usual, coffee already brewing while I scrolled through emails I didn’t want to answer. My mind wasn’t on work. It was on the gym. On him.
I told myself it was just routine now. Same time, same place. Nothing more.
But when I scanned in at 6:50 p.m., the gym felt different. Smaller. Charged. Like the air itself knew something was shifting.
He was already there... on the pull-up bar, knocking out slow, controlled reps. His back was to the door, lats flaring wide with every pull, tank riding up just enough to show the dimples at the base of his spine. I paused in the doorway longer than I should have, watching the way his shoulders bunched and released. Watching the sweat trace clean lines down smooth skin.
He dropped after the last rep, turned, saw me. No grin this time. Just a quiet nod, eyes holding mine a beat too long.
We didn’t speak right away again. I changed, started with back work: rows, pull-downs... keeping him in my peripheral. He moved to deadlifts nearby. Heavy plates. Focused breathing. Every time he bent to grip the bar, his ass flexed under the shorts, round and tight, and I had to force my eyes back to my own set.
Halfway through my workout he walked over during my rest period, water bottle in hand, chest rising and falling fast.
“She left this morning,” he said without preamble. “Flight to LAX. Second interview tomorrow. Said she’d text when she landed.”
I set the bar down carefully. “You okay?”
He shrugged, but it was tight. “I don’t know. We didn’t fight. We just… talked. A lot. She cried. I didn’t. Felt like shit for that.”
“You don’t have to perform grief on cue.”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. She asked if I loved her enough to go. I said I loved her, but not enough to leave everything behind. She said that was fair. Then she hugged me like it was goodbye.”
He looked smaller somehow. Not physically... the same muscular frame, but like the weight of the conversation had pressed something inward.
I reached out without thinking, put a hand on his shoulder. Solid. Warm through the damp fabric. I squeezed once.
“You did what you had to,” I said quietly.
He covered my hand with his for a second... palm over knuckles... then let go like he’d remembered himself. “Thanks. I just… needed to say it out loud to someone who wasn’t her.”
We finished separately but ended up at the cable machines at the same time. He took the one next to mine. Close. Our elbows brushed once when we both reached for the handle. Neither of us moved away.
Afterward, in the locker room, the usual slowness. He peeled off his tank, tossed it into his bag. Turned toward me shirtless, towel over one shoulder. No pretense of modesty.
“You heading straight home?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Same.” He hesitated. “Walk with me?”
I nodded.
Outside the wind had picked up, stinging cheeks. We walked closer than before... shoulders almost touching, arms swinging in rhythm. He was quieter tonight. Not sullen, just… processing.
Halfway to my building he stopped under the same streetlight from Saturday.
“Avie.”
I turned.
He looked up at me, green eyes catching the orange glow. “Can I ask you something stupid?”
“Always.”
“Do you ever get tired of being alone? Like… really tired?”
I exhaled through my nose. “Every day.”
He stepped closer. Close enough I could feel the heat coming off him despite the cold.
“I’m tired,” he said softly. “I’ve been tired for months. Maybe longer.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let him close the last inch.
His hand came up... slow, tentative... fingers brushing the edge of my beard, then settling against my jaw. Thumb grazing the corner of my mouth.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to.”
He leaned in.
The kiss was soft at first. Hesitant. His lips warm, slightly chapped from the wind. I let him lead... let him press closer, let his other hand find my waist under the hoodie. When I kissed back it was gentle, careful, giving him room to pull away.
He didn’t.
Instead he deepened it: tongue brushing mine, a small, surprised sound escaping his throat. His body molded against me, hard chest to mine, hips slotting forward until I felt the unmistakable press of him through our shorts. Thick. Already half-hard.
I groaned low, hands sliding to his lower back, pulling him tighter. He trembled once... full-body shiver and kissed me harder, like he was chasing something he’d been denying for years.
We broke apart only when a car passed, headlights sweeping over us.
He rested his forehead against mine, breathing ragged.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “That was…”
“Yeah.”
He laughed... shaky, disbelieving. “I just kissed a guy. In the middle of the street. Like some rom-com cliché.”
“You regret it?”
He pulled back enough to look at me. Eyes bright. Scared. Alive.
“No.”
I brushed my thumb over his bottom lip. “Good.”
We stood there another minute, foreheads touching, breath mingling in white clouds.
Then he stepped back, reluctant. “I should… go home. Think. Process. Whatever.”
“Take your time.”
He nodded. Started to turn, then stopped. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
He smiled... small, real, a little dazed and jogged off into the dark.
I watched him until he was gone.
Then I touched my lips, still tingling, and went inside.
For the first time in forever, the apartment didn’t feel empty when I closed the door.
It felt like it was waiting.
... To be continued
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