You don't sit.

You stay where you are, closer to the exit than to him. Your feet are planted. Your hands hang at your sides. You're not leaving, but you're not following instructions either.

Karim finishes loading the bar. Wipes his hands on the towel. He take a long measuring look at you in the mirror first then turns around to face you directly.

"Nervous?"

Your pulse jumps. You don't answer.

He steps closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Each step closing the distance between you until he stops three feet away.

Close enough that the air between you shifts. You can really smell him now. The sandalwood, sweat, and something uniquely him underneath mixed with iron and salt.

"That's fine," he says. His voice is low, calm. "Most men are, the first time."

He doesn't break eye contact. Doesn't look away. Just stands there, weight balanced, arms loose at his sides. Waiting.

"You can leave if you want," he continues. "But if you're staying, I need you to listen."

The silence stretches. Three seconds. Four.

Then he gestures toward a door at the back of the gym.

"You'll need to change first."

You glance down at yourself. Jeans. T-shirt. He's right, but—

"Trial membership includes gear," he says, already moving toward the door. "Come on."

You follow.

The hallway is short. Concrete floor, exposed brick. He opens a door on the left and steps inside. You follow him in.

The locker room is small. A row of lockers along one wall, a wooden bench, and through an open doorway at the far end, you can see white tile and shower heads. No dividers.

Karim moves to a cabinet above the lockers and pulls out a black muscle shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. Both have a small gold lion logo. He hands them to you.

"These should fit."

You take them. The fabric is soft, lightweight. The shirt has deep-cut armholes. The shorts are thin and very short.

You wait for him to leave.

He doesn't.

He leans against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest, and just stands there. Watching.

Your throat tightens. "You're not—"

"I've seen it before," he says simply. "You're not special."

It's not cruel. Just matter-of-fact.

You stand there for a moment, clothes in hand, trying to decide if this is a line you're willing to cross. He's not moving. Not looking away. Just waiting.

You set the clothes on the bench and pull your shirt over your head.

Karim's eyes track the movement. Not hungry. Not leering. Just observing. Like he's watching you do a rep, checking your form.

You toe off your shoes. Peel off your socks. Your hands go to your belt.

You undo it. Unbutton your jeans. Pull the zipper down. The sound echoing off the lockers in the quite.

You push your jeans down and step out of them.

You're standing there in your boxer briefs now. The fabric is worn soft, sitting low on your hips. You reach for the shorts Karim gave you.

You pull them on over your underwear. They're short—very short—and the waistband of your boxer briefs sticks out above them. You can see it in the mirror. An inch of fabric, maybe more, visible above the shorts.

You look ridiculous.

But you're not taking the underwear off. Not with him standing right there.

You reach for the muscle shirt and pull it on. It fits loosely, the armholes cut so deep that you can see your ribs, your sides, all the way down to your hips when you move.

"Better," Karim says.

You turn to face him, ready to head back out to the gym.

He pushes off the lockers and steps closer.

"Underwear won't work," he says.

You glance down. "It's fine."

"It's not." He's right in front of you now. "Athletic shorts are designed for movement. Underwear will bunch. Pinch. Get in the way."

"I'll deal with it."

His eyes don't leave yours. "You will. But you'll also be distracted. And distracted means sloppy form. Sloppy form means injury."

He pauses, and without raising his voice says, "Take them off."

Your face heats. "I'm not—"

He's already moving. He drops to one knee in front of you.

Your breath stops.

He's eye level with your hips now. Eye level with the waistband of your shorts, with the bulge of your cock beneath the fabric. His hands come up, fingers hooking into the waistband of both the shorts and your boxer briefs.

"This will feel better," he says calmly. "Trust me."

Then he pulls them both down in one smooth motion.

The fabric slides over your hips, down your thighs, catching briefly before falling to your ankles. Cool air hits your skin. Your cock hangs there, exposed, inches from his face.

Karim doesn't react. Doesn't look up. Doesn't comment.

"Step out," he says.

Your hands move on instinct. You reach for his shoulders to brace yourself. His skin is warm under your palms, solid muscle beneath. You lift one foot, then the other, stepping free of the pooled fabric.

You're naked from the waist down. Standing in a locker room with a man on his knees in front of you. Your cock is right there, level with his face.

He reaches to the side and tosses your boxer briefs away. They land near your jeans.

Then he picks up the shorts.

"Step in," he says.

You do.

First one leg, then the other. He pulls the shorts up slowly, the fabric sliding over your calves, your knees, your thighs. His knuckles brush your skin as he guides them higher. When he reaches your hips, he adjusts the waistband, settling it low where it's meant to sit.

The fabric is soft against your bare skin. You can feel everything. Every shift, every movement, every brush of material against your cock.

Karim stands. He's taller than you by a few inches. He looks down at you, expression calm, unbothered.

"Better," he says again.

Your face is burning. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Your cock is aware of the fabric, of the lack of anything underneath it.

Karim says nothing else. He just turns and walks toward the door, gesturing for you to follow.

You follow him back into the gym.

He's already moved to the center of the floor, near the mats. When you step out of the hallway, he glances at you once—quick, assessing—then points to the mat.

"Stretch. Hamstrings, hips, shoulders. I'll tell you if you're doing it wrong."

Your hands are warm. Your face is still flushed. You walk to the mat.

He doesn't follow. Just leans against the wall, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg. Watching.

You lower yourself onto the mat. The rubber is cool under your bare feet. You extend one leg and reach for your toes.

The shorts ride up immediately. The hem slides higher on your thighs, stopping just below where your ass begins. You can feel how short they are. How exposed you are.

You move into a hip opener. The fabric shifts. You're hyperaware of everything—the way it brushes against your cock when you move, the way the muscle shirt gapes at the sides, showing your ribs, your chest, your stomach.

"Stop."

You freeze.

Karim pushes off the wall. Steps onto the mat. He's close now. Close enough that you can see the rise and fall of his chest, the dark hair across his pecs, the silver bars through his nipples.

"Your hips are too high," he says. "You're compensating with your lower back."

His hand settles on your waist. Firm. Not rough. Just there.

Heat spreads where his palm makes contact. You can feel every finger, every point of pressure, through the thin fabric of the shirt.

He adjusts your position. His thumb presses into the small of your back, guiding you lower. His other hand comes up to your hip, steadying you.

"There," he says quietly. "Feel the difference?"

You nod. Your throat is too tight to speak.

"Good."

His hands stay where they are for a moment longer than necessary. Then he steps back.

"Again. Slower."

You repeat the stretch. His eyes track every shift of your body.

"Better. But you're still holding tension in your shoulders."

This time both hands come up. One on your shoulder blade, one at the base of your neck. He presses down, then releases. The pressure is firm, grounding.

Your breath catches.

"Relax," he says, quieter now. "You'll break yourself if you stay this tight."

The correction session continues. Squat form—his hands on your hips, teaching you where the weight should sit. Plank hold—his palm flat on your lower back, holding you steady when your arms start to shake. Resistance band work—his body behind yours, his hands guiding yours on the handles.

Every adjustment is an excuse for contact. Every instruction leaves less space between you.

By the time he tells you to stand, your shirt is damp with sweat. The shorts have ridden up even higher. You're breathing hard.

He hands you a water bottle.

"Drink. All of it."

You take it. Tilt your head back. The water is cold. You swallow once, twice, then lower the bottle.

He's closer than before.

"You did well," he says. "Better than I expected."

Something tightens low in your stomach.

"Next part is harder. I'm going to spot you on the bench press. If you can't handle the weight, tell me before you try. Understand?"

You nod.

Karim gestures toward the bench press station.