Chapter 1: First Sweat and Sparks
The air in the gym smelled of disinfectant, rubber, and the faint, salty tang of old sweat. Tiina tightened the laces on her brand-new trainers, the ones that promised cloud-like support, and tried to will her heart to slow down. It wasn’t the thought of exercise making it race. It was the mirrored wall ahead, reflecting every curve of her in the navy leggings and black compression top. The fabric clung, leaving nothing to imagination, especially around her hips and backside. She’d bought them a size too small, a silent, punishing pact with herself. See? This is what you are. Now fix it.
“Tiina?”
The voice was calm, deep. She turned, and her breath caught a little.
Jarkko stood with a clipboard, a simple grey t-shirt stretched across a chest that was clearly more than just gym-enthusiast level. He was tall, with the relaxed posture of someone completely at home in his own body. His hair was cropped short, his face clean-shaven and younger than she’d expected, but his eyes held a direct, appraising look that felt ageless.
“Hei. That’s me,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Jarkko. Let’s get started.” His smile was polite, professional. “Filled out your PAR-Q. No joint issues, just… general want to get stronger, lose some weight. That right?”
“General want to not get winded climbing stairs,” she corrected, her tone lighter than she felt.
“Fair goal.” He nodded, his eyes scanning her form not with judgment, she thought, but with a mechanic’s assessment. “We’ll start with basics. Movement patterns. See what your body likes.”
He led her to the squat rack. It stood empty and intimidating. “Bodyweight squats first. Just show me how you’d naturally do it.”
Tiina positioned her feet, went down. She felt awkward, off-balance.
“Okay, stop.” He came around to her side. “See here? Your knees are caving in. It’s about the hips. Think of sitting back into a chair, not just dropping down.” He demonstrated, fluid and powerful. “Try again.”
She tried. She concentrated so hard her temples pulsed.
“Still collapsing.” He moved behind her without warning. “May I?”
She just nodded, her throat tight.
His hands settled on her hips. They were large, warm even through the fabric. His thumbs pressed into the dips of her iliac crest, his fingers splaying over the generous curve of her backside. A jolt, pure and electric, shot through her.
“This is your hinge,” he said, his voice closer to her ear now. It was steady, instructional, but the proximity was anything but. “Initiate from here. Push back against my hands.”
She did. She sank into the squat, feeling the solid resistance of his palms guiding her path, keeping her stable. The heat of him radiated against her. She could smell him—clean cotton, a faint, sharp note of cologne, and underneath, just the clean scent of skin.
“Better,” he murmured. “Depth is good. Now up.”
She rose. His hands stayed on her, firm and sure.
“Again. And don’t look at the mirror. Feel it.”
She did it again. And again. Each descent, his chest brushed against her back, a fleeting, muscular pressure. Each ascent, his hands commanded her movement. The clinical environment of the gym seemed to dissolve, the clangs and grunts fading into a hum. All she was aware of was the point of contact, the heat building between his palms and her hips, the shocking intimacy of the correction. It wasn’t lewd. It was professional. That’s what made the fire it lit in her belly so confusing and intense.
On the fifth rep, a soft sound escaped her—a gasp of effort mixed with something else.
His hands tightened for a fraction of a second before he let go and stepped back. The cool gym air rushed in where his body had been, a sudden chill.
“Good,” he said, clearing his throat.