"Thanks," you manage.
You don't move toward the showers. Don't move toward the locker room.
You just... stay.
Stand there on the mat for a moment, pretending to catch your breath. Pretending there's a reason not to go.
Karim wipes his hands on the towel, then drapes it over the nearby rack. He moves to the bench press station and starts wiping down the equipment. His movements are practiced, routine. The same way he probably ends every session.
You stretch. Reach your arms overhead, pull them across your chest. Movements you've already done. Movements you don't need to repeat.
It gives you an excuse to stay.
Karim moves to the squat rack next. Collects the towel he had tucked in his waistband earlier and wipes down the bar, the rack, the bench. Efficient. Thorough.
You adjust the shorts. Shift your weight. Drink from the water bottle he gave you earlier, even though you're not thirsty anymore.
Your cock has finally softened. The adrenaline is fading. The moment feels like it's slipping away, cooling into something normal. Something that was just a workout. Just training.
But the touches, his hands on your hips, on your shoulders, his chest against your back, his palm on your chest when he said "Steady", those felt like something more.
Didn't they?
You watch him in your peripheral vision. Waiting for him to look at you. To say something. To make the next move.
He picks up the plates from the floor, carries them back to the weight rack. Slots them into place with the same precision he uses for everything.
Five minutes pass.
Seven.
You're running out of excuses to stay on the floor. Running out of ways to look busy.
Then Karim's phone buzzes in his pocket.
He pulls it out. Glances at the screen. His expression doesn't change.
He looks up at you.
"I have a client in fifteen," he says.
Matter-of-fact. Not apologetic. Not disappointed. Just stating a fact.
Your throat tightens. "Oh. Right. I should—" You gesture vaguely toward the locker room.
Karim nods. "You did good today." He tucks his phone back into his pocket. "Same time Thursday if you want to continue."
Not "I want you to continue."
Just "if you want to."
The offer is there.
He's already moving, picking up the clipboard from the desk, checking something. His attention has shifted. Professional. Ready for the next client.
"Yeah," you say. "Thursday. Sure."
He glances up briefly. Nods once. "Good."
Then he's back to the clipboard. Writing something. Already moving on to whatever's next.
You walk to the locker room.
The space is quiet when you enter. You can hear the gym through the door—muffled sounds, movement, the faint clang of weights.
Someone else must have arrived. The client Karim mentioned.
You strip off the Lion's Den gear. Fold it without thinking. Pull on your own clothes. Jeans, shirt, shoes. Normal clothes. Safe clothes.
You can hear voices now. Indistinct but clear enough to recognize Karim's low tone, someone else responding.
You finish dressing. Check your pockets for your keys, your phone, your wallet. Everything's there.
You open the door and walk back through the gym.
Karim is on the floor with another man. Younger than you, maybe mid-twenties. Built. Confident posture. The kind of guy who looks like he's been lifting for years.
Karim is demonstrating a squat form. His hands are on the guy's hips, adjusting his position. The same way he touched you.
The guy laughs at something Karim says. Karim's expression is calm and focused. Professional.
You walk toward the door. Karim glances up as you pass.
"See you Thursday," he says.
You nod. Push through the door. Up the stairs. Out onto the street.
The street is bright and loud after the dim quiet of the gym. Cars, voices, the hiss of a bus pulling away from a stop down the block.
Normal. Safe. Disappointing.
You start walking.
No destination. Just forward.
Your hands are in your pockets. Your throat is still tight.
"Same time Thursday."
Was that real? Or was it just something trainers say? The polite thing to offer after a trial session?
The touches felt like they meant something. His hands lingering on your hips during the stretches. His chest against your back. The way he said "Steady" with his palm flat on your chest.
But maybe they didn't mean anything. Maybe that's just how Karim trains everyone.
Professional. Thorough. Hands-on.
You saw him touch that other guy the same way. Hands on his hips. Same positioning. Same calm, focused attention.
It wasn't special. You weren't special.
You were just another client. Another trial session. Another body moving through his space.
The bench press though. The weight of his cock and balls against your face when he squatted to help with the bar, that was an accident. Had to be. Functional. He was just helping you lift.
The ten reps where his ass grazed your cock with every squat. He was only following the bar. Spotting you. That's what spotters do. That's the position he needed to be in.
It didn't mean anything.
Did it?
You walk another block. Two.
Your cock is soft now. Completely. The arousal from earlier feels distant, embarrassing. You were hard under him, your cock visible past the shorts, and he didn't say anything. Didn't react. Because it probably happens all the time. Bodies respond to exertion, to proximity, to adrenaline. He's a professional. He's seen it before.
You weren't special.
But he said Thursday.
"Same time Thursday if you want to continue."
Not if he wants you to. If you want to.
The offer is there. The invitation stands.
But it's just training. Just lifting. Just a trial membership that might become a regular thing if you decide to come back.
Three blocks. Four.
Thursday is three days away.
The code still works. You could go back. Could see if the next session feels different. Could see if those touches were just professional or if there was something underneath them.
You don't know.
And standing there on the gym floor, watching him wipe down equipment and check his phone and move on to the next client without a second glance—that felt like an answer.
You weren't what you thought you were.
You were just another body. Another session.
Thursday is still there.
You still have the code.
Despite the disappointment, despite the uncertainty, despite the feeling that you misread everything, part of you wants to go back.
Just to see.
Just to know for sure.
You don't move toward the showers. Don't move toward the locker room.
You just... stay.
Stand there on the mat for a moment, pretending to catch your breath. Pretending there's a reason not to go.
Karim wipes his hands on the towel, then drapes it over the nearby rack. He moves to the bench press station and starts wiping down the equipment. His movements are practiced, routine. The same way he probably ends every session.
You stretch. Reach your arms overhead, pull them across your chest. Movements you've already done. Movements you don't need to repeat.
It gives you an excuse to stay.
Karim moves to the squat rack next. Collects the towel he had tucked in his waistband earlier and wipes down the bar, the rack, the bench. Efficient. Thorough.
You adjust the shorts. Shift your weight. Drink from the water bottle he gave you earlier, even though you're not thirsty anymore.
Your cock has finally softened. The adrenaline is fading. The moment feels like it's slipping away, cooling into something normal. Something that was just a workout. Just training.
But the touches, his hands on your hips, on your shoulders, his chest against your back, his palm on your chest when he said "Steady", those felt like something more.
Didn't they?
You watch him in your peripheral vision. Waiting for him to look at you. To say something. To make the next move.
He picks up the plates from the floor, carries them back to the weight rack. Slots them into place with the same precision he uses for everything.
Five minutes pass.
Seven.
You're running out of excuses to stay on the floor. Running out of ways to look busy.
Then Karim's phone buzzes in his pocket.
He pulls it out. Glances at the screen. His expression doesn't change.
He looks up at you.
"I have a client in fifteen," he says.
Matter-of-fact. Not apologetic. Not disappointed. Just stating a fact.
Your throat tightens. "Oh. Right. I should—" You gesture vaguely toward the locker room.
Karim nods. "You did good today." He tucks his phone back into his pocket. "Same time Thursday if you want to continue."
Not "I want you to continue."
Just "if you want to."
The offer is there.
He's already moving, picking up the clipboard from the desk, checking something. His attention has shifted. Professional. Ready for the next client.
"Yeah," you say. "Thursday. Sure."
He glances up briefly. Nods once. "Good."
Then he's back to the clipboard. Writing something. Already moving on to whatever's next.
You walk to the locker room.
The space is quiet when you enter. You can hear the gym through the door—muffled sounds, movement, the faint clang of weights.
Someone else must have arrived. The client Karim mentioned.
You strip off the Lion's Den gear. Fold it without thinking. Pull on your own clothes. Jeans, shirt, shoes. Normal clothes. Safe clothes.
You can hear voices now. Indistinct but clear enough to recognize Karim's low tone, someone else responding.
You finish dressing. Check your pockets for your keys, your phone, your wallet. Everything's there.
You open the door and walk back through the gym.
Karim is on the floor with another man. Younger than you, maybe mid-twenties. Built. Confident posture. The kind of guy who looks like he's been lifting for years.
Karim is demonstrating a squat form. His hands are on the guy's hips, adjusting his position. The same way he touched you.
The guy laughs at something Karim says. Karim's expression is calm and focused. Professional.
You walk toward the door. Karim glances up as you pass.
"See you Thursday," he says.
You nod. Push through the door. Up the stairs. Out onto the street.
The street is bright and loud after the dim quiet of the gym. Cars, voices, the hiss of a bus pulling away from a stop down the block.
Normal. Safe. Disappointing.
You start walking.
No destination. Just forward.
Your hands are in your pockets. Your throat is still tight.
"Same time Thursday."
Was that real? Or was it just something trainers say? The polite thing to offer after a trial session?
The touches felt like they meant something. His hands lingering on your hips during the stretches. His chest against your back. The way he said "Steady" with his palm flat on your chest.
But maybe they didn't mean anything. Maybe that's just how Karim trains everyone.
Professional. Thorough. Hands-on.
You saw him touch that other guy the same way. Hands on his hips. Same positioning. Same calm, focused attention.
It wasn't special. You weren't special.
You were just another client. Another trial session. Another body moving through his space.
The bench press though. The weight of his cock and balls against your face when he squatted to help with the bar, that was an accident. Had to be. Functional. He was just helping you lift.
The ten reps where his ass grazed your cock with every squat. He was only following the bar. Spotting you. That's what spotters do. That's the position he needed to be in.
It didn't mean anything.
Did it?
You walk another block. Two.
Your cock is soft now. Completely. The arousal from earlier feels distant, embarrassing. You were hard under him, your cock visible past the shorts, and he didn't say anything. Didn't react. Because it probably happens all the time. Bodies respond to exertion, to proximity, to adrenaline. He's a professional. He's seen it before.
You weren't special.
But he said Thursday.
"Same time Thursday if you want to continue."
Not if he wants you to. If you want to.
The offer is there. The invitation stands.
But it's just training. Just lifting. Just a trial membership that might become a regular thing if you decide to come back.
Three blocks. Four.
Thursday is three days away.
The code still works. You could go back. Could see if the next session feels different. Could see if those touches were just professional or if there was something underneath them.
You don't know.
And standing there on the gym floor, watching him wipe down equipment and check his phone and move on to the next client without a second glance—that felt like an answer.
You weren't what you thought you were.
You were just another body. Another session.
Thursday is still there.
You still have the code.
Despite the disappointment, despite the uncertainty, despite the feeling that you misread everything, part of you wants to go back.
Just to see.
Just to know for sure.