Shifting my grip, I curl both hands more firmly over the bar, lifting just enough for one measured second he thinks I might be easing off.
Relief flashes over his face.
Then I shove down hard.
The metal drives into his chest with a brutal clang that jolts the entire bench. He cries out, small, and ugly, the sound tearing loose before he can control it. His hips jerk. One plate rattles violently against the collar. His hands scramble, nearly losing the bar altogether.
“Fuck,” he chokes.
“Yes,” I scoff. “Now we’re speaking honestly.”
He’s breathing fast enough to get dizzy. I can see it in the way his eyes keep trying to refocus. I let him suffer there for a few long beats, pinned under weight and humiliation, then lean close enough that my words brush his cheek.
“You’re going to stay away from her because fear taught you to,” I murmur. “Not because I asked nicely. Not because you suddenly respect boundaries. Because your body is going to remember this every time you think about testing me again.”
His lips peel back. “You’re fucking crazy.”
I nod once. “You keep saying that like it changes your situation.”
Reaching down, I catch two fingers in the collar of his shirt, tugging him just enough to make the fabric bite into his throat. My other hand never leaves the bar.
“I know exactly what boys like you sound like when they think they’ve found a weak point. I know that sweet careful tone. I know that false patience. I know how quickly concern turns into resentment when the girl still says no.”
His expression flickers at that. Recognition. Not of me. Of himself.
There it is.
I smile again, but there’s no humor in it.
“You saw her pain and thought it made her reachable. It didn’t. It just made you stupid enough to stand where I could find you.”
He shuts his eyes for half a second, whether from pain or fury I don’t know. When he opens them again, they’re wet at the corners. Not crying. Just body stress. Another humiliation.
Perfect.
Rising to stand, I press the bar down one last time until the metal kisses his chest so hard his whole torso quivers under it. Then, very slowly, I slide my gaze to the side of the bench where the safety clip sits loose from one end of the bar.
He sees me looking.
That scares him more than anything else so far.
Because now he’s imagining what happens if a plate slips. If balance goes. If all that weight tips wrong while he’s trapped beneath it.
I don’t even have to touch the clip.
I just let my fingers hover over it.
His face goes pale under the flush.
“Please,” he cries.
That word hangs in the air between us, almost sweet in its ruin.
Glancing down at him, I see it.
Fear.
There it is. There’s the truth. Strip enough comfort away and every man becomes a prayer in a body.
