Forbidden Flex: When Training Turns Intimate
Where discipline ends and desire takes over—the night we made sweat holy
There’s an hour in the hospital when the lights lose their edge and the corridors turn soft, blue, and exhausted. The world slumps in the wake of a late shift—adrenaline spent, my body thrumming, hunger pooling in deep, unfamiliar places.
I step into the gym quietly, letting the door close behind me with the softest click. I don’t rush. Every sound is sharper in the night: sneakers squeaking, my breath rushing from memory into the moment, the hum of an old power strip under cheap lights.
Lukas is already there. Abs glisten, sweat cutting tracks through dust and muscle. His towel rides danger low, hips dipping, obliques mapped by fluorescent shadow. There’s that look—fresh toweling across his jaw, hair pushed back in messy tufts, chest rising and falling in a slow, hungry rhythm that’s both tease and warning, the kind of rhythm you only notice after everything else’s fallen quiet.
He grins, the kind that means trouble. His lips part slowly. “Thought you’d bail on me tonight.”
It’s a dare, not a question—a little pain under all the bravado. I find myself holding the handle of my bag tighter, forced to acknowledge the truth: I couldn’t have stayed away, even if exhaustion bit through every muscle.
