He finishes his set and walks over, slow, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “Need a spot?” he says, voice flat.
I want to say no. I want to say, “I’d rather lift with the guy who used to deal meth at my high school,” but the words get stuck somewhere behind my teeth.
“Yeah,” I say, and hate myself for it.
He stands behind me, silent. The smell of his sweat is clean, like cedar and rain, nothing like the rest of this shithole.
I get under the bar, stare up at the ceiling, which is water-stained and full of cracks.
I start my reps. One, two, three. At four, the world narrows to the bar and the sound of my own breath. At six, I’m shaking.
“Push,” he says, barely above a whisper.
I do. I get to eight, and then the bar starts to slip.
He catches it, hands steady on either side, but instead of just racking it, he lets it hover, and for a second I feel the full weight of him, the pressure, the insistence that I can do this, that I’m not broken, not useless.
I finish the set and sit up, dizzy.
Darius puts a hand on my chest, steadying me. His palm is warm, almost burning.
It stays there a beat too long, just long enough for me to notice, just long enough to make it weird.
He pulls back, wipes his hands on his shorts. “You good?”
I nod, but my throat is tight.
He steps back, gives me space, but I can feel him watching as I rack the weights and try to play it cool.
Every nerve is lit up, every muscle vibrating. I don’t know if I want to scream or laugh or just lie on the rubber mat and wait for the cleaning crew to sweep me into the dumpster out back.
We finish our routines without another word. When I leave, the air outside feels electric, charged with something I can’t name.
I get in my car, sit there with the engine off, and wonder if the next time will be easier or harder. If there will even be a next time.
I drive home in silence, every turn of the wheel a new chance to rewind the scene, analyze every detail, every glance, every accidental brush of skin.
When I get back to my apartment, my hands are still shaking.
Not from the workout.
But from the touch.
———
The next morning, I wake up before the alarm.
My body feels like it’s been through a woodchipper, every tendon whimpering in protest, but there’s a pulse under it all, a weird kind of anticipation, the kind I used to get before championship games.
I think about texting Darius, something stupid like “You alive?” but I don’t want to seem eager, so I just stare at the ceiling until the gray daylight leaks in.
By seven, I’m back at the Ballard gym.
Same empty parking lot, same busted vending machine guy nodding me through. I figure it’ll be another solo session, justme and the ghosts, but as soon as I hit the weights floor, I see him.
Darius is there, again, already half-sweated through his t-shirt, hair sticking to his forehead like he’s been doing sprints since dawn.
He looks at me, doesn’t say anything, just points at the squat rack next to his and nods.
