I grabbed dumbbells and started with my shoulders. Overhead press. Controlled reps.
The door opened. Kieran stepped inside.
"Donnelly."
"Mathers."
He didn't ask if I minded company, just started his warm-up. Stretching first. Shoulders. Hips. Methodical.
The gym was quiet except for our breathing and the soft percussion of weights settling back onto racks. I finished my second set. Sweat gathered at my hairline.
On the TV,SportsCentercycled through highlights.
Kieran glanced over. "Need a spot?"
"That'd be great."
He set his dumbbells down. Wiped his palms on his shorts. Moved behind the bench.
I lay back. The weight felt heavier than the last set.
"Ready?" His voice came from above.
"Yeah."
I lifted the bar off. His hands hovered beneath. Not touching. Present.
My arms trembled slightly on four.
The bar wobbled on six.
Kieran's hands were there. Steadying without lifting.
"You got it." Quiet. Certain.
I pushed through. Seven. Eight. On nine, my arms screamed.
The bar dipped left.
Kieran touched my shoulder, steadying me.
His fingers spanned my shoulder completely—thumb near my collarbone, pinky at the curve where shoulder became arm.
I finished the rep, and he helped me rack the bar.
The hand on my shoulder lingered. Then he stepped back.
"Good set."
When I finished my next set, Kieran was doing pull-ups. Controlled. Perfect form. Shoulder blades converging on each rep.
I watched how his back muscles moved under his damp t-shirt, definition that came from years of training. The shirt rodeup slightly at the top of each pull. A sliver of skin visible above his waistband.
He dropped down. Shook out his arms.
Caught me watching.
Neither of us spoke.
