“These are a bit small,” he states the obvious, tugging at the shirt that’s riding up to expose a strip of his abs.
“They look fine,” I lie, forcing my eyes up to his face. “Ready to get started?”
“I’ve drawn up a modified version of my routine.” He pulls out his phone, all business now. “We’ll start with a dynamic warm-up, then move to compound lifts, followed by accessory work and conditioning.”
“I thought you weren’t going to water it down,” I challenge, trying to ignore how the shorts cling to his ass as he walks to an open area for our warm-up.
“Trust me,” he says, glancing back at me. “Even watered down, you’re going to feel this tomorrow.”
He’s not lying. Twenty minutes into the warm-up—just the fucking warm-up—and I’m already sweating through my shirt. Gray moves through the exercises with smooth efficiency, demonstrating each one with perfect form. I try to match him, but my body feels clumsy and uncoordinated next to his.
“Keep your core tight,” he instructs, coming closer to adjust my position during a plank. His hand presses against my lower back, and I nearly collapse at the contact. “Like this.”
I tense my abs, hyperaware of his touch, the heat of his palm burning through my shirt. He’s being completely professional, but my body doesn’t seem to care. All I can think about is his hand sliding lower, his breath on my neck, his voice in my ear telling me exactly what to do.
This was a mistake. Ahugemistake.
I thought bringing Gray here would be a good way to see him in his element, to understand him better outside the context of him being my bodyguard. And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, I wanted to impress him.
Instead, all it’s done is remind me of what happened between us on Saturday. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he came apart.
“Let’s move to the squat rack,” Gray says, oblivious to my internal struggle. Or maybe not so oblivious, given the careful distance he maintains as we move to the next station.
He shows me how to set up for squats, explaining the movement pattern with clinical precision. But there’s nothing clinical about the way his quads flex as he demonstrates, the way his ass pulls against my borrowed shorts when he drops into a perfect squat.
“Your turn,” he says, stepping back. “Remember to keep your chest up, core engaged.”
I step under the bar, loaded with what he assures me is very lightweight, and immediately feel the pressure across my shoulders.
“Feet wider,” Gray instructs. “Toes out.”
I adjust my stance, trying to focus on his instructions and not on how his eyes track my movements.
“Now drop into the squat. Keep your weight in your heels.”
I lower myself, wobbling slightly.
“Deeper,” he commands, and fuck if that doesn’t send a jolt straight to my cock.
I go deeper, thighs burning, and then push back up with more effort than I’d like to admit.
“Again,” Gray says. “Nine more reps.”
By the fifth rep, my legs are trembling. By the eighth, I’m questioning all my life choices. By the tenth, I’m ready to collapse.
“Good,” Gray says as I rack the bar, and despite the agony in my quads, I feel a pathetic surge of pride at his approval. “That wasn’t bad for a first attempt.”
We move through the rest of the strength portion of the workout—bench press, rows, overhead press—with Gray demonstrating each exercise before I attempt it. He’s a surprisingly good teacher, patient but demanding, pushing me just to the edge of my limits without going over.
Throughout it all, I’m acutely aware of him. The way sweat makes his borrowed shirt cling even tighter to his chest, the controlled power in every movement, the rare smiles when I manage to execute a lift correctly. I told him there wouldn’t be anything like Saturday between us again, but watching him in his element makes me want to take it all back.
“Let’s move to some basic self-defense,” Gray suggests after we finish the last set of rows. “It’s an important skill, and good for conditioning.”
I nod, following him to the matted area at the back of the gym. It’s relatively empty today—just a few serious-looking fighters working the heavy bags in the far corner.
“Self-defense is about awareness and leverage,” Gray explains as we stand facing each other on the mats. “It doesn’t matter how big or strong your opponent is if you can use their momentum against them.”
“So it’s not just about punching people?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
