After a quick glass of water and my usual blue razz pre-workout, I pull on my favorite lemon-yellow training top and black shorts. The training top fabric hugs my body like a second skin—supportive enough for heavy lifts but cute enough that I didn’t feel like a total mess.
Today I’m flying solo, and honestly, I kind of need the headspace.
The gym is only a ten-minute walk away. The cold morning air nips at my cheeks as I power-walk, earbuds in but the volume low. I replay yesterday’s scene work in my head, Dermott’s praise still warming me.
Bring that raw energy to the audition.
Easier said than done when my schedule is already bursting at the seams. Clients, classes, protein bars from sweet Mr. Jameson, and the constant hustle to keep rent paid.
But the gym is my sanctuary.
Early mornings mean empty floors, no waiting for machines, and zero small talk unless I want it.
Perfect.
I headed straight for the free weights section, the familiar scent of rubber mats and faint sweat greeting me like an old friend. The shoulder press machine is free.
Score!
I load the appropriate plates, adjust the seat for my smaller frame, and settle in.
“Alright, shoulders,” I mutter, gripping the handles. “Let’s make it count.”
I push through the first few reps, feeling the burn build nicely in my delts. Form is everything—controlled movement, no swinging, core tight. Halfway through the set, I become vaguely aware of movement beside me. Someone has claimed the bench right next to mine.
No big deal.
I finish the set with a satisfied exhale, racking the handles and shaking out my arms. That’s when I look over.
My stomach does a weird little flip.
It’shim.
The older guy from yesterday.
The one Skeet pointed out with that knowing laugh. Tall, broad, hair cropped short, and shoulders that looked like they could bench-press a small car. He is already seated at the machine next to mine, loading plates that made my eyes widen.Wayheavier than what I’m working with.
A dark energy rolls off him like heat from pavement in summer. Not creepy exactly, but…intense.
Commanding.
The kind of presence that makes the air feel thicker. His jaw is set, expression focused and unreadable. No friendly nod, no casual gym bro energy. Just quiet, menacing power.
I try not to stare as he begins his own set. His form is actually pretty solid—controlled descent, explosive but smooth press. Still, I spot a couple of tiny corrections: slight flare in the elbows on the way up, and maybe a touch more retraction could help him avoid shoulder strain later.
As a trainer, the instinct to offer feedback kicks in hard.
Don’t you dare,I tell myself firmly.He’s not a client. And that vibe… nope.
There is something almost dangerous about how composed he is. Like he is used to the world bending around him rather than the other way around. I swallow and look away, pretending to adjust my water bottle.
But my heart is beating faster than the set warranted.
He finishes his reps with a low grunt that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Then, to my complete surprise, he turns his head and speaks…
“Kirill,” he says.
His voice is deep, lightly accented—kind of Russian, I guess—with a calm authority that makes it sound less like an introduction and more like a statement of fact.
