You turn back toward the door.

Your hand reaches for the code panel before you've fully made the decision. The green button is right there. Press it and the lock disengages. Press it and you're back in the stairwell, back on the street, back to normal.

Your thumb hovers over it.

Behind you, Karim moves. You hear the clang of a plate being set down. The scrape of metal on metal. He's still working. Still focused on whatever he was doing before you arrived.

He hasn't said anything. Hasn't stopped you. Hasn't even looked in your direction since he told you to wait.

You press the button.

The lock clicks. The panel blinks green.

You pull the door open. Cool air rushes in from the stairwell, cutting through the warmth of the gym. The scent of sandalwood and iron fades immediately, replaced by concrete and city exhaust.

You glance back.

Just once.

Karim is at the rack. His back is still to you. But he's moved since you turned away. His arms are raised now, hands resting on top of his head, elbows out. The posture stretches him. His tank top rides up, exposing the full curve of his lower back, the deep dimples above his ass, the dark trail of hair that disappears into his waistband.

The shorts sit even lower now. The fabric clings where it touches and hangs loose everywhere else.

He shifts his weight. Rolls his neck. The movement is casual. Unconscious. But it pulls the threadbare material tight across his hips and thighs. The overhead light hits it at exactly the right angle.

You can see everything.

The thick outline of his cock, heavy even soft, pressed against the worn fabric. It hangs down his left thigh, the shape of it unmistakable. The head, the shaft, the weight of it. The fabric is so thin in places that you can make out the ridge where the head ends, the slight curve of the shaft.

Lower, near his knee, the leg opening gapes slightly. The tip is right there. Almost visible. Just barely hidden by the last inch of fabric. One more shift and it would slip free entirely.

He doesn't adjust. Doesn't pull the shorts higher or shift his stance to hide it.

He just stands there, arms still raised, breathing slow and even.

Then he drops his arms. Reaches for the bar. Goes back to work.

The moment is gone.

You're still standing in the doorway. The door is open. The stairwell is right there.

Your cock is hard now. Pressed uncomfortably against your jeans. Your pulse is loud in your ears.

Karim still hasn't looked at you.

You step through the door.

It closes behind you with a heavy thunk. The lock engages. The sound echoes in the narrow stairwell.

You stand there for three seconds. Four. Staring at the door. At the code panel on this side, dark and inactive. At the small sign that says "Members Only" in faded letters.

Then you start climbing.

The street is loud after the quiet of the gym. Car horns. Distant sirens. The hiss of a bus pulling away from the curb two blocks down. People everywhere, moving fast, heads down, going somewhere.

You walk.

No destination in mind. Just away. Away from the door. Away from the stairwell. Away from the decision you just made.

The sun is setting. The sky is orange and pink, the buildings casting long shadows across the sidewalk. The air is cooler up here but still warm enough that you don't need a jacket. Your shirt sticks to your back where you were sweating in the gym.

Your cock is still half-hard. It softens as you walk, but slowly. Too slowly.

You pass a coffee shop. A bodega. A dry cleaner with a neon sign flickering in the window. Normal things. Safe things. Things that don't require codes or decisions or men who look at you like they're deciding something you're not privy to.

You should feel relieved.

You don't.

Three blocks later, you stop at a crosswalk. The light is red. You wait with a dozen other people, all of them staring at their phones or the traffic or nothing in particular.

Your phone is in your pocket. You pull it out. Check the time. Check your messages. Nothing urgent. Nothing that required you to leave.

The light changes. You cross.

You think about the way Karim's hand caught the other man's neck. The way the man's shoulders dropped. The way he left without looking back but also without hesitation. Like he knew exactly what that touch meant. Like he'd been waiting for it.

You think about the way Karim looked at you. That quick, evaluative glance. The way his gaze dropped down your body and came back up. Not subtle. Not apologetic.

Decision made, you'd thought.

But you left before finding out what that decision was.

Four blocks now. Five. You're not heading home. Not yet. You're just walking. Putting distance between yourself and the gym. Between yourself and whatever might have happened if you'd stayed.

Your hands are in your pockets. Your throat is still dry. You should've taken the water bottle he would have offered. Should've sat on that bench. Should've waited the three minutes.

Should've.

The word sits heavy in your chest.

You pass a bar. The door is propped open, music and voices spilling out onto the sidewalk. A group of men stand outside smoking, laughing about something. One of them glances at you as you pass. His eyes linger for a second, curious, maybe interested. Then he looks away.

You keep walking.

Six blocks. Seven.

Your cock has finally gone soft. The uncomfortable pressure in your jeans has eased. But there's a different kind of tension now. Something coiled low in your stomach. Something that feels like regret but sharper.

You think about his shoulders. The way his tank top clung to them. The way the fabric pulled tight when he reached up.

You think about his thighs. The way the muscles shifted when he squatted. The way the threadbare shorts became almost transparent in the right light.

You think about his hands. Large and capable. The callouses you saw on his palms when he wiped them on the towel. The way they would feel if they touched you the way they touched that other man.

Firm. Possessive. Sure.

You stop walking.

You're standing in front of a bookstore. The window display is full of bestsellers and staff picks and a handwritten sign that says "New Arrivals." You're not reading any of it. You're just standing there, staring at your reflection in the glass.

You look the same as you did an hour ago. Same shirt. Same jeans. Same face.

But something feels different. Off. Like you left something behind that you can't name.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out. A text from Eamon asking if you want to grab dinner later. You stare at it for a long moment, then lock the screen without responding.

Eight blocks now. Maybe nine. You've lost count.

The sun has set fully. The streetlights are on. The city has that in-between quality where it's not quite night but not quite day either. Everything is softer. Quieter.

You should go home. Shower. Eat something. Forget about the gym and the man and the choice you made.

You should.

But you don't move.

You think about the code. The six digits someone gave you. You memorized them without trying. They're still there, sitting in your head, easy to recall.

Members only.

You're not a member. Not really. You just have the code.

But the code still works.

You could go back.

The thought arrives fully formed. Not a question. Just a fact.

You could walk the nine blocks back. Descend the stairs. Enter the code. Push the door open. See if he's still there. See if the offer is still on the table. See if "Wait there. I'll be ready in three minutes" still applies an hour later.

You could.

Your hands are warm again. Your pulse is back, steady and aware. The tightness in your chest that you thought had faded is still there. Present. Waiting.

You turn around.

Face the direction you came from. The gym is back that way. Nine blocks. Maybe eight. Not far.

You stand there for a long time. Long enough that people have to step around you on the sidewalk. Long enough that someone mutters "excuse me" under their breath. Long enough that the sky goes from orange to deep blue to black.

Then you start walking.

Not toward the gym.

Toward home.

But slower this time.

And the code is still in your head.