Chapter 1: Bunny at the Gym
The air inside Ironclad Fitness hit Kaidan like a wall of used towels and ambition. It was a thick, warm haze carrying the metallic tang of sweat, the sharp chemical bite of disinfectant, and beneath it all, the faint, greasy aroma of effort. He paused just inside the glass doors, his heart doing a nervous flutter against his ribs. The pink silk of his dress felt impossibly thin.
Behind the scarred wooden front desk, a flickering fluorescent light buzzed like an angry insect. Its cold glow fell on sticky notes, a forgotten protein shaker lid crusted with something beige, and a single chipped mug that read Hank’s Special Blend. From the weight room beyond the mirror came the rhythmic thud of plates, a guttural grunt, the shriek of a sled being dragged across turf.
Kaidan adjusted the tiny purse on his shoulder, feeling the familiar cylindrical shape of the small lube bottle inside. A comfort thing. He smoothed the front of his dress, the silk whispering under his white-gloved fingers, and took a step toward the desk.
The two men behind it stopped talking. Their eyes locked onto him.
One was stocky, bald, with a thick neck that seemed to merge with his shoulders. The other was younger, wiry, with a shaved head and a silver hoop glinting in his eyebrow. They looked him up and down—the fluffy pink hair, the bunny-eared hood of his fur-trimmed cape, the dress, the absurdly cute boots.
A beat of silence stretched, broken only by the distant clang of iron.
The bald one, Marco, let out a low, rolling chuckle that shook his belly. “Well, hello there. Lost your way to the Easter parade, sweetheart?”
Kaidan’s smile was tight, automatic. “I’m, um. I’m here to see Hank.”
The younger one, Derek, barked a laugh. He leaned an elbow on the counter, his gaze dropping to Kaidan’s mid-thigh hemline. “No shit you are. Hank’s a man of taste, I’ll give him that. Ordering in for his lunch break. Bold.”
“What’s your name, sugar?” Marco asked, his voice a greasy slide. “Or is that part of the premium package?”
Kaidan’s brain stuttered, caught in the headlights of their assumption. He could correct them. He should. The words I’m his manga artist lodged in his throat, dust-dry and impossible. Their collective gaze felt physical, a press of heat and judgment. He swallowed, his gloved fingers twisting together. Playing along suddenly seemed safer, faster. A path through this.
“K-Kaidan,” he managed.
“Cute,” Derek said, not meaning it. He looked at Marco, grinning. “Told you the old dog had a kink. This is some next-level shit.”
“Hey, for what he’s probably paying, he deserves next-level.” Marco winked, a grotesque twist of his face. “So, Kaidan. You do a lot of gym calls? Must be… slippery work.”
They laughed, a harsh, two-part harmony. Kaidan felt a hot flush creep up his neck. He stared at a water stain on the countertop, willing himself to disappear into the pink fabric of his dress.
“He’s in the back,” Derek said, jerking his thumb toward a dim hallway past the desk. “Storage room. Getting his… equipment ready, I guess.”
“Better not keep him waiting,” Marco added. “Clock’s ticking, right?”
Kaidan nodded, a quick, birdlike motion, and moved to scoot past the desk’s end. The space was narrow. As he passed, Derek shifted, his hip blocking the way for just a second. Kaidan flinched back.
“Easy, bunny. Just admiring the fit.” Derek’s hand came out in a gesture that was too casual, too slow to be accidental. His palm connected with a firm, ringing slap to the seat of Kaidan’s dress.
The sound was obscenely loud in the dingy space.
Kaidan froze. Every muscle locked. The shock of it—the audacity, the sting—traveled up his spine and crystallized behind his eyes. His breath hitched.
Marco’s boisterous laugh filled the air. “Attaboy! Gotta inspect the merchandise!”
“Feels premium,” Derek said, his leer palpable. “Now get going. Down the hall, last door on the left. Don’t trip on those heels.”
Moving on autopilot, Kaidan floated down the hall. The garish light from the front desk faded, replaced by the weak yellow glow of a single bulb. The thuds and grunts from the gym were muffled here, replaced by the hum of a water heater and the scuff of his own heart-shaped heels on the linoleum.
He could still feel the ghost of the slap, a hot, spreading brand on the silk. Shame and a dizzying spark of anger tangled in his gut. This was a mistake. This whole outfit, coming here, was a catastrophic mistake.
He reached the last door on the left. A simple, unmarked slab of grey metal. The storage room. Hank was on the other side, waiting for his manga artist, completely unaware of the scene at his front desk.
Kaidan’s hand, encased in its pristine white silk, hovered an inch from the handle. He took a deep, shaky breath, the air tasting of dust and loneliness. The cylindrical weight of the lube bottle in his purse felt less like comfort now and more like a damning piece of evidence.
He turned the handle. The door clicked open into darkness.