The moment I open the door, I’m hit with the smell of sweat and testosterone and Alpha. The basement has been converted into a full gym. Weight equipment, benches, a whole section of free weights, even a boxing ring in one corner.
And there, in the middle of it all, are Mason and Dylan.
In sweatpants. Loose tank tops that show off absolutely every muscle.
This is completely unfair.
Mason is doing bicep curls with weights that look impossibly heavy, his arms flexing. Dylan is at the bench press, pushing up what has to be over two hundred pounds like it’s nothing.
I’m turned on at the blink of an eye recently—around them, anyway—but this is torture.
“There she is,” Dylan announces, racking his weights and sitting up with a grin. “Ready to become a man?”
“That’s a concerning way to phrase it,” I reply, trying not to stare at how his tank top clings to his chest.
“If you’re going to convince Reed you’re a real man,” Mason says, setting down his weights and dragging a towel across the back of his neck, his gaze flicking over me in a way that feels far too assessing to be innocent, “we need to teach you how to carry yourself. Walk, talk, sit. The whole package. Right now, as Ash, you look like you’re apologizing for existing.”
“And building some strength won’t hurt,” Dylan adds, leaning his forearms on the rack, watching me with open amusement. “Confidence isn’t just attitude. It’s physical. You move differently when you know you can back it up.”
“Plus,” Mason adds, mouth curving slowly as his gaze drops and then rises again with no attempt to hide it, “we get to watch you work out. Which, I’m not going to lie, I’m personally very invested in.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s heat climbing up my neck anyway. “You two are way too interested in this. Okay,” I concede, lifting my chin. “Where do we start?”
“Walking,” Dylan decides immediately. “Show us how Ash walked.”
I demonstrate the walk I practiced endlessly in mirrors and empty hallways. Shoulders loose. Steps longer. Taking up space instead of shrinking away. I even add the slight head tilt that I’d convinced myself looked casual and confident.
They stare at me for exactly two seconds before both of them break.
Mason bends forward, hands braced on his thighs, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Dylan turns away entirely, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying and failing to maintain composure.
“What?” I demand, glaring between them. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You look,” Mason manages between breaths, straightening slowly, “like you’re smuggling something fragile between your legs and you’re terrified it might break.”
Dylan loses it again. “It’s the shoulders,” he says, pointing. “Why are they doing that?”
“I am not doing anything with my shoulders.”
“You are,” Mason assures me. “They’re trying to escape your body.”
“I hate both of you.”
“That’s fair,” Dylan says. “But also deserved.”
“Then show me how to do it right,” I challenge, crossing my arms. “Since you’re clearly experts.”
Dylan steps forward immediately, expression shifting into something exaggerated and theatrical. He rolls his shoulders back, lifts his chin, and starts walking across the room like he owns every square inch of air.
“This,” he announces in a comically deep voice, “is how real men walk. With confidence. Power. Like the ground is lucky to be stepped on.”
He pauses, then adds with a dead-serious expression, “Also like our balls are so massive they’ve altered our center of gravity.”
I burst out laughing. “That is not how men walk. That’s how peacocks audition for leadership.”
“There’s overlap,” Mason says thoughtfully.
Dylan turns, still in character. “Notice the lack of hesitation. The complete absence of self-doubt.”
