Chapter 8: Gym Encounter
The barbell trembled above Ben’s chest, his arms burning, sweat slicking the vinyl bench. He exhaled hard, forcing the weight up one last time before racking it with a metallic clang. His ribs ached. His hands stung. And then—
A pulse.
Low. Insistent.
He froze.
The gym noise—weights dropping, distant laughter, a treadmill whirring—faded into white noise. His thighs tensed. That fucking *buzz*, like a phone set to vibrate in his pocket, except this wasn’t his pocket.
Ben jerked his head to the side.
There, by the water fountain, leaning against the mirrored wall like he had all the time in the world—Stu.
Black joggers, gray hoodie pushed up to his elbows, phone loose in one hand. He wasn’t even looking at Ben. Just scrolling, lips quirked, thumb hovering over the screen.
The vibration stopped.
Ben swallowed, throat dry. He sat up too fast, the room tilting for a second. When he looked again, Stu was gone.
"Shit."
He grabbed his towel, swiping at his face. The cage pressed against him, a constant, humiliating reminder. Two weeks. Two goddamn weeks of this.
"Yo, you done?"
A guy in a tank top jerked his chin at the bench.
"Yeah, yeah." Ben stood, his legs weirdly unsteady. He reached for his water bottle, chugging half of it in one go. The cold did nothing to settle the heat under his skin.
His phone buzzed—actual phone this time. Lisa. *Can you grab diapers?* Followed by a second text: *The expensive ones.*
Ben thumbed a reply—*Sure*—then hesitated, scanning the gym again. No sign of Stu. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe the buzz had been some weird muscle spasm.
Then his shorts vibrated again.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Ben choked on his water.
Across the room, near the squat racks, Stu was watching now. Smirking. He lifted his phone, wiggled it slightly, then turned and walked toward the locker room.
Ben stood there, torn between fury and something else—something that made his stomach twist.
"Fuck it."
He grabbed his bag and followed.
The locker room smelled like cheap body wash and damp concrete. Steam curled from the shower area. Ben rounded the corner, expecting—what? A confrontation? A joke?
Stu was at the sinks, sleeves rolled higher, rinsing his hands. He glanced up in the mirror, meeting Ben’s reflection.
"Miss me?"
Ben dropped his bag. "What the hell was that?"
"Motivation." Stu shook water from his fingers. "You looked like you were slacking."
"It’s a *gym.*"
"And?" Stu turned, leaning back against the counter. "You think discipline’s confined to a clinic?"
Ben opened his mouth, then shut it. The cage hummed again, lighter this time, almost teasing. His fingers twitched.
Stu’s gaze dropped, then flicked back up, amused. "Problem?"
"Yeah, actually." Ben stepped closer, voice low. "You can’t just—"
"Can’t what?" Stu tilted his head. "You agreed to the terms."
"Didn’t realize that meant public torture."
Stu laughed, soft. "Torture? That’s setting three. You’d know if it was torture."
The air between them felt charged, like the moment before a fistfight or a bad decision. Ben could see the fine stubble along Stu’s jaw, the faint crease where his dimple appeared when he smiled. Too close.
Stu’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then sighed. "Duty calls." He pushed off the counter, brushing past Ben. "Don’t forget—no touching."
The locker room door swung shut behind him.
Ben gripped the sink, knuckles white. The cage had stopped vibrating, but the phantom sensation lingered. He splashed water on his face, avoiding his own reflection.
His phone buzzed again. Lisa. *Did you see my text?*
Ben exhaled. *On my way*, he typed, then hesitated before adding, *Get the good wine too.*
He needed it.
Outside, the afternoon sun was blinding. Ben adjusted himself discreetly, hating the way the cage shifted, a constant thrum of awareness.
Two weeks.
He wondered if Stu was counting.