And that’s fucking hot.
I’ve spent years around people who hire trainers and nutritionists to maintain appearances, but Sorrel’s strength is different.
It’s...earned.
Built from hauling equipment through alpine terrain no doubt, from digging in frozen soil, from surviving conditions that would break softer people.
She switches to resistance bands, working through a series of exercises that have her breathing harder. She must be growing hot, because she decides to pull off the hoodie, leaving just the thermal top. And now I can see the definition in her arms every time she flexes. Definition that you would never imagine was there.
Stop staring.
But I don’t stop.
Can’t.
She catches me watching and pauses mid-rep. “What? Never seen a woman lift weights before, hun?”
I don’t comment. Instead I increase the weight on the pull-down machine.
After I force myself through a set, I look at her and ask on a whim, “How much can you bench?”
She shakes her head. “No idea. I’ve never really used a bench press. I focus more on functional strength.”
“Wanna try? I can spot.” The offer comes out before I can think it through. Before I can consider what it means to put my hands near hers, to stand over her while she’s flat on her back, breathing hard from exertion.
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. “Sure. Why not.”
I put ten pounds per side on the bar while she positions herself on the bench.
She settles into place, hands gripping the bar, and I move to stand behind her head. Close enough to assist if needed.
And close enough to catch her scent.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” she replies.
She lifts the bar smoothly and begins her reps. I keep my hands hovering just below the bar, tracking her form.
“Too light,” she says, re-racking the bar.
I add another ten per side, so that she’s lifting forty plus the bar.
She tries again. It’s solid, controlled, but I can see the strain in her arms by the fifth rep.
“Six,” I count. “Seven. You’ve got this.”
Her breathing patterns shift, synchronizing with the movements. Down, up. Down, up. I’m aware of every detail. Theflex of her muscles. The small grunting sound she makes before pushing up. How close my hands are to touching hers.
“Eight. One more.”
She powers through the final rep and I help guide the bar back to the rack. For a moment neither of us moves. She’s flat on her back, chest rising and falling. I’m leaning over her, hands still on the bar, a position that feels charged with something dangerous.
“Thanks,” she says quietly, looking up at me.
Our eyes lock and I forget how to breathe.
This is a problem.
