Chapter 4: The Morning After
The dream was a tangled, warm thing. Ella’s hands, then not Ella’s hands—stronger, more deliberate, tracing the lines of my shoulders, sliding down my back. A low voice in my ear, coaching me through a final, impossible rep. Just one more, Ben. Push. I woke with a jolt, the sheets twisted around my legs, my heart thudding. The gray light of dawn bled around the edges of the blinds.
The apartment was silent, but it felt like a held breath.
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and padded out to the kitchen, hoping for coffee and a moment to shake off the phantom feeling of those dream-hands.
He was already there.
Stu stood against the counter, bathed in the soft gold of the under-cabinet light. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of fitted black boxer briefs. Steam curled from a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. He looked like he’d been standing there for a while, perfectly still, waiting. The quiet was different from his usual morning grumpiness; it was a watchful, charged silence.
“Morning,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but his eyes were clear, alert. They tracked me from the hallway to the fridge.
“Hey.” I kept it short, moving to the coffee maker. The pot was full. He’d made it.
“Slept okay?” he asked. I could feel his gaze on my back.
“Fine. You?”
“Like a baby.” He took a slow sip. “You skipped your shake last night.”
I shrugged, pouring my coffee. The black liquid swirled, dark and bitter. “Wasn’t hungry after… everything.”
“Recovery isn’t about hunger. It’s about protocol.” I heard the soft shuffle of his feet on the tile. When I turned, he was right there, closer than I’d expected, pushing a tall blender glass across the island towards me. It was full of that familiar, thick, pale sludge. “I made you a fresh one. Drank mine already.”
The shake sat between us, a creamy white beacon. Condensation slid down the glass. It looked innocuous. It felt like a subpoena.
“Stu, come on. It’s six a.m.”
“Muscles don’t care what time it is.” He leaned his hips against the counter, crossing his ankles. The muscles in his abdomen defined themselves in the low light. “They only care about the fuel you give them. After yesterday’s hypertrophy focus, your fibers are literally screaming for amino acids.”
He said it with the calm certainty of a scientist. His eyes, however, weren’t on my face. They traveled down my chest, over the loose fabric of my sweatpants, and lingered. A slow, knowing smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
A cold flush of understanding washed over me. The dream, the confusing arousal it left behind—it wasn’t as concealed as I’d hoped. The soft, thin cotton of my pants left little to the imagination in the frank morning light. He saw it. He’d been standing there, waiting, and he saw it.
My face grew hot. I didn’t move, didn’t adjust myself. To do so would be an admission. A forfeit.
Stu’s smirk deepened. He finally dragged his gaze back up to meet mine. There was no apology in it, only a quiet, intense fascination. “See?” he said, his voice dropping to a conversational murmur. “The body has its own schedule. Its own needs. You should listen to it.”
He pushed off the counter, his arm brushing mine as he reached for his mug. The contact was electric, a brief transfer of warmth. “Drink the shake, Ben. I’ll be in my room getting ready. Leg day today. Heavy. You’re going to need every bit of that.”
He walked down the hallway, the muscles in his back moving under smooth skin. He didn’t look back.
I stood alone in the humming kitchen, staring at the offering he’d left me. The refrigerator light clicked off, plunging the room into a deeper, more intimate shade of gold. I was painfully, explicitly aware of my own body, a fact he had just catalogued with the detached interest of a researcher noting data. The protein shake was no longer just a health supplement. It was a thread, pulling taut between us, and with every glance, every carefully timed comment, every strategically prepared meal, Stu was reeling it in.
I picked up the cold, sweaty glass. I didn’t want it. But after a moment, I drank it down, the chalky vanilla taste coating my throat, a silent acquiescence to a game whose rules I didn’t yet understand.