Chapter 4: The Sports Bra Consultation
The two weeks had passed in a taut, delicious limbo. Iza had seen Mikołaj across the gym floor three times, each encounter a silent exchange of glances that lasted a second too long, a smile that was more a secret shared than a greeting. The theoretical had become a live wire, humming with potential energy. Tonight, she decided, she would touch it.
She waited until the last of the evening class shuffled out, leaving the vast space echoing with residual energy. The cleaning staff wouldn’t arrive for another hour. The only light came from the cardio zone, casting long, dramatic shadows across the mats where Mikołaj was coiling cables, his back a vast canvas of moving muscle under a damp shirt.
Iza had dressed for the moment. Black, high-waisted leggings that sculpted her curves, and a new, deliberately difficult top: a tight, racer-back black tank over a grey sports bra, the straps a complex web. She’d worn it for twenty minutes on the elliptical, letting a real sweat dampen the fabric, make it cling.
She approached, the soft tap of her trainers on the rubber floor the only sound. “Mikołaj?”
He turned, and the sight of her—flushed, deliberate—stilled his hands. His pale eyes swept over her, a frank, appreciative assessment that sent a jolt through her. “Iza. You’re working late.”
“Trying to.” She injected a note of frustration into her voice, turning slightly to expose the line of her shoulder. “This new top. It’s for a running line I’m prototyping. Form meets function. But the strap here…” She reached back, fumbling with a false awkwardness, her fingers brushing the place where the sports bra strap met the tank’s back seam. “It’s chafing. Horribly. I can’t get the alignment right.”
She held her breath. This was the invitation, laid bare.
He wiped his hands on his thighs and stepped closer. The scent of him—clean sweat, spearmint, the warm, sun-drenched scent of his skin—enveloped her. “May I?”
She nodded, wordless, and presented her back to him.
The world narrowed to the space between his body and hers. The distant, rhythmic thump of a lone treadmill became a heartbeat. His shadow fell over her, merging with her own on the mat. She felt the heat of him first, a radiation that made the fine hairs on her neck stand up. Then, the blunt, careful press of his fingertips against her shoulder blade.
He didn’t just grab the strap. He took the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, testing its tension. His touch was clinical, at first. A professional assessing a problem. But his breath stirred the damp hairs at her nape. “The seam is too rigid for this cut,” he said, his voice a low rumble so close to her ear. “It’s digging in here, see?” He traced a line along the edge of the strap with a single, calloused finger. The touch was no longer clinical. It was a slow, deliberate stroke following the path of the chafing.
Iza’s skin erupted in goosebumps. Her own breath shallowed. She could feel every ridge of his fingerprint. “Yes,” she managed. “Exactly there.”
His other hand came up to steady her opposite shoulder. The weight of it was immense, grounding. He used the hand on the strap to gently shift it, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin beside her spine. The adjustment took seconds, but he didn’t remove his hands. They rested there, one spanning her shoulder, the other splayed against her upper back, his thumb making tiny, unconscious circles.
The pretense was threadbare, dissolving in the thick silence. He wasn’t fixing the top. He was mapping her.
“Is that better?” he asked. The question was a formality. His tone said he knew it was irrelevant.
She turned within the cage of his arms, a slow pivot that brought them face-to-face, her body now just inches from his. The heat between them was a palpable force. She looked up, meeting his pale blue gaze, seeing the earnestness replaced by a banked, focused fire. His beard, a vibrant copper in the low light, seemed to amplify the intensity of his stare.
“It’s different,” she whispered.
His eyes dropped to her lips, then traveled down the line of her throat, over the rapid flutter of her pulse, to where the damp fabric of the tank clung to her chest. His hands were still on her, one now on her waist, the other lingering on her back, pulling her a fraction closer. The hard planes of his abdomen brushed against her.
“Iza,” he said, her name a statement, a question, and an acknowledgment all at once.
“I know.” She lifted a hand, hesitated, then placed it flat against the solid wall of his chest. The damp cotton was hot. She could feel the fierce drum of his heart, a wild counter-rhythm to the distant gym beat. “This isn’t about the top.”
A slow, genuine smile broke across his face, softening the fierce lines. “No. It’s not.” He leaned in, his forehead nearly touching her beret. “I’ve been thinking about that juice bar. About tension.”
“And release?”
“And the responsible way to build towards it.” He drew back slightly, though his hands remained. The space he created was suddenly cold. “I don’t do things in the gym. It’s… my place of work. It deserves a boundary.”
A flash of something like disappointment, sharp and urgent, cut through her. But it was quickly followed by a deeper respect. He was exercising his own restraint, claiming control of the script.
“I understand,” she said, and found she meant it.
“But,” he continued, his thumb resuming those small, maddening circles on her waist, “my lease is up. I’m painting my new apartment this Saturday. It’s a blank canvas. Could use… a second opinion on the light. And maybe a break for coffee. Or whisky.”
The invitation was concrete, unmistakable. A location. A time. A move from the public forum to a private, unfinished space. It was infinitely more intimate than a hurried encounter on the rubber mats.
The momentum of the evening, which had felt like a headlong rush, solidified into a slow, sure current. She could see it: drop cloths, the smell of fresh paint, the vulnerability of an unfinished home.
“What time?” she asked, her voice steady.
“Afternoon. Three.” He finally released her, taking a full step back. The absence of his heat was a shock. “I’ll text you the address.”
She nodded, adjusting her perfectly adjusted strap out of pure habit, a need to do something with her hands. “I’ll be there.”
He watched her, a giant stilled in the half-light. “Good.”
There was nothing more to say. She turned and walked away, feeling his gaze on her like a physical touch all the way to the locker room. Her skin buzzed. The memory of his hands was imprinted, a phantom pressure.
The cold night air outside was a slap, a bracing return to reality. She walked quickly towards Powiśle, the city lights blurring. She wasn’t going home yet. She needed to walk, to let the fever in her blood cool to a sustainable burn. He had given her a date. A place. He had touched her with a promise in his fingertips.
She pulled out her phone, her fingers numb from the cold. She typed a message to Anzelm, her breath pluming in the air.
‘The pretense is gone. Saturday afternoon. His new place.’
She sent it, slid the phone back into her pocket, and kept walking. The game was no longer about leaving breadcrumbs. They were both striding openly towards the feast.
They were both striding openly towards the feast.
Across the city, in an office that smelled of stale coffee and ambition, Anzelm watched the clock. Those same two weeks had stretched and condensed for him, each day a series of calculated brushes in the kitchenette, shared glances over spreadsheets, and the electric friction of Anna Singh’s competitive wit. His initial thrill had settled into a focused pursuit, a game he was determined to win on her terms.
He found her by the printer, pulling a thick deck of campaign proofs. The late afternoon sun cut across the floor, gilding the dust motes and the fine, flyaway hairs that escaped her sleek ponytail. “That’s the third time you’ve ‘accidentally’ wandered over here today, Dworczak,” she said without looking up, her British accent clipping the words into playful weapons. “My stapler isn’t that interesting.”
“It’s your stapler’s owner I’m profiling,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. He kept his voice easy, the picture of relaxed charm, but his pulse was a quick, insistent tap behind his ribs. “Tactical brilliance, relentless execution, a devastating smile she deploys only after she’s eviscerated your quarterly report. I’m building a case study.”
Anna finally looked at him, her dark eyes gleaming. She stacked the papers with a sharp tap against the metal tray. “And what’s your hypothesis, professor?”
“That her superior strategies are fueled by terrible office coffee.” He pushed off the frame and took a single step into her space. The hum of the printer filled the silence. “And that she might be persuaded to trade it for a single, superior gin and tonic. After work.”
She didn’t retreat. She tilted her head, assessing him like a complex equation. The teasing glint softened into something more direct, more dangerous. “A drink. Is this a continuation of the case study? Field research?”
“It’s a drink, Anna.” He held her gaze, letting the charm drop for a raw, honest second. “No agenda. No debrief. Just a conversation that doesn’t start with a meeting reminder.”
A slow smile touched her lips, not the devastating one, but a smaller, realer version. She looked down, gathering her things. “The pub on the corner. The one with the hideous wallpaper. Eight o’clock.” She brushed past him, her shoulder glancing off his arm. A shock of contact, deliberate. “Don’t be late. I have a reputation for abandoning boring dates.”
Then she was gone, the scent of her citrus and clean cotton perfume lingering in her wake. Anzelm let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A concrete victory. A time, a place. The familiar restless energy in his chest cohered into a sharp, bright point of anticipation.
His phone buzzed in his pocket as he walked back to his desk. He extracted it, the screen lighting his face in the dimming office.
The message from Iza was terse, definitive. ‘The pretense is gone. Saturday afternoon. His new place.’
He stared at the words, a strange cocktail of heat and cold mixing in his veins. She was moving. She was really doing it. The image of her in the gym, of some other man’s hands testing the strap of her top, flashed behind his eyes, visceral and unbidden. It wasn’t jealousy that clenched his stomach. It was the sheer, staggering reality of it, the velocity of the thing they had set into motion.
He typed a reply, his thumbs feeling clumsy. ‘Understood. Have my own field research tonight. The hideous wallpaper pub. 8.’
He sent it, the message shooting into the digital ether between them, a simultaneous report from twin fronts. He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing. The office was empty now, silent save for the low hum of the servers. He pictured Iza walking by the river, her black beret a sharp silhouette against the city lights, carrying the feel of another man’s touch on her skin.
He pictured Anna, at home right now, deciding what to wear. The game was no longer theoretical for either of them. The board was set, and every piece was in motion.
The board was set, and every piece was in motion.
The pub’s wallpaper was, as advertised, hideous: a frantic pattern of mustard-yellow pheasants and burgundy vines that seemed to pulse under the low amber lights. Anzelm spotted Anna immediately at a small round table in the back, her spine straight against the wooden booth, a half-finished gin and tonic already sweating on a cardboard coaster. She’d changed from her office wear into a simple, tight-fitting charcoal sweater that highlighted the defined line of her shoulders. She watched him navigate the cramped space, her expression unreadable.
“You’re two minutes late,” she said as he slid into the seat opposite. Her tone held its usual tease, but her eyes were conducting a swift, thorough audit.
“The elevator argued with me.” He flagged down a waiter, ordered the same. The air between them was thick with the smell of fried food and stale beer, undercut by her clean, citrus scent. “You started without me. I’m wounded.”
“Due diligence.” She took a slow sip, her gaze not leaving his. “I wanted to see if you’d show. You’ve been… persistently present for two weeks. Then, radio silence today until the invite. It felt strategic.”
The drinks arrived. Anzelm lifted his glass, clinked it lightly against hers. “Maybe I was gathering intel. Maybe I just wanted a drink with the cleverest person in the office.”
Anna laughed, a short, genuine sound that softened the intensity in her shoulders. “Flattery is a blunt instrument in your hands, Dworczak. Try subtler.” She leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table. The move brought her closer, her dark eyes capturing the dim light. “So. This conversation that doesn’t start with a meeting reminder. Let’s have it. Why the sudden, focused campaign? Warsaw is full of pretty interns and junior associates. You’re married. To Iza Dworczak. The fashion designer. I googled.”
There it was. The cut, swift and surgical, directly to the artery of the matter. No more small talk. Anzelm felt a ripple of surprised admiration. She hadn’t just accepted the drink; she’d come to negotiate its terms.
He rolled the cool glass between his palms, buying a second. “I am married to Iza. Yes.”
“And?” Anna prompted, her voice dropping, intimate in the noisy room. “Is this where you give me the ‘open relationship’ speech? Because I’ve heard that one before. It usually translates to ‘I want permission to cheat.’”
“It’s not a speech.” He met her look, letting his own guard down just enough to show a sliver of the restlessness beneath. “It’s a fact. A mutual one. A recent one. She’s out tonight, too.”
Anna’s eyebrow arched. She absorbed this, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. “So this is… what? Synchronized swimming? You both jump in at the same time so no one feels left behind?”
“It’s an exploration.” The word felt both true and inadequate. “A choice. Not a permission slip.”
“An exploration.” She tested the word, her lips quirking. “And what are you hoping to explore, exactly? With me?”
“Conversation,” he said, his voice lowering to match hers. The hum of the pub faded to a distant buzz. “Chemistry. The way you argue a point like you’re unfastening a lock. The specific shade of impatience in your eyes when someone is slower than you. That.”
A faint blush darkened her cheeks, but her smile turned sharper. “That’s a good answer. Dangerously good.” She took another drink, her throat working as she swallowed. “And Iza? What is she exploring?”
The phantom image from Iza’s text—His new place—flickered in his mind. “Freedom. Curiosity. The same things I am, probably through a different lens.”
“Is it competitive?” The question was blunt. “You hear she’s on a date, so you set one up? You see her moving a piece, so you move yours?”
Anzelm felt the truth of it, sharp and uncomfortable. He shook his head, not in denial, but in concession. “It’s responsive. It’s alive. It makes everything feel… heightened. Including this. Right now.”
He let his foot brush against hers under the small table. She didn’t pull away. She pressed back, a firm, acknowledging pressure.
“You’re very good at this,” she murmured, her gaze dipping to his mouth. “At making something complicated sound simple and inevitable. It’s your job, I suppose. Crafting narratives.”
“This isn’t a narrative, Anna. This is a table in a ugly pub. This is you deciding if I’m worth the complexity.”
“And are you?” She leaned closer still. The space between them was charged, a live wire strung with unasked questions. “What do you actually want from me? A thrilling secret? A weekly rendezvous where we pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist?”
“I want to see,” he said, the words leaving him with a raw honesty that surprised them both. “I want to see what happens when I stop wondering what it would be like to kiss you, and just do it. I want to know if the tension in the office is just clever banter, or something that feels like this.” He gestured between them, the air practically vibrating.
Her lips parted. She was breathing a little faster. “That’s very direct.”
“You cut to the chase. I’m just following your lead.”
They were silent for a long moment, locked in the assessment. The flirting had evaporated, replaced by something harder, more explicit in its intent. It was no longer about hints or possibilities. It was about terms.
“I don’t do drama,” Anna stated finally, her voice firm. “I don’t do hidden phone calls or jealous wives showing up at the office. If this is a thing, it exists in its own container. Discreet. Self-contained. It doesn’t leak into my career.”
“Understood.”
“And I need to know you’re not going to…” She searched for the word, her confidence flickering for the first time, revealing the younger woman beneath the razor-sharp facade. “Freak out. On me. When this becomes real. When you have to go home to her after… whatever this is.”
Anzelm felt the weight of the promise he was about to make. It was the cornerstone of everything. “I suggested this, Anna. I opened the door. I don’t get to be shocked by what walks through it. From either side.”
She studied him, looking for the flaw in the logic, the crack in his conviction. Finding none apparent, she gave a single, slow nod. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” She finished her drink, the ice clinking loudly. “Your place or mine? Because I’m not finishing this conversation here, and I’m not going to a hotel. It feels seedy.”
The sudden, practical decisiveness of it winded him. The theory was over. “Mine,” he said, his voice slightly rough. “Iza is out. For the night.”
Anna’s eyes widened just a fraction, the final reality of the situation dawning. Then she shrugged, a beautiful, athletic roll of her shoulders as she gathered her coat. “Then let’s go. I want to see if the reality lives up to two weeks of very promising buildup.” She stood, looking down at him with a heat that was no longer playful. “And I want to know what happens when you stop talking, Anzelm.”