James is early again.
Jake clocks the truck from the gym window—twelve minutes before their session, pulling into the driveway and stopping. James grips the wheel with both hands. Stares straight ahead. Doesn’t move.
He does this every time now. Arrives early, then sits there. Jake has watched him mouth words to himself, watched him drop his head against the headrest, watched him reach for the door handle and pull back. The truck never leaves. James always comes inside.
Jake finishes his warm-up set. Takes his time.
When James finally knocks, Jake counts to thirty before opening the door.
“Go get changed. Legs today.”
James nods and moves to the corner where he keeps his bag. Strips off his shirt, pulls on a tank top. Three months of sessions have changed how he moves in this space—quicker to respond, less deliberation. He’s learned that when Jake speaks, he moves. Learned what happens when he doesn’t.
He hasn’t figured out what else he’s learning.
Jake runs him hard. Squats until his thighs shake. Lunges until his form starts to slip. Leg press until the veins stand out on his neck. Jake corrects him with short commands and shorter touches—a hand on his hip to fix his stance, fingers pressing into his lower back to adjust his posture. Each time, James’s breath catches. Each time, he adjusts without question.
By the end of the hour, both of them are dripping. James bends over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. His tank top is soaked through, clinging to the muscles underneath. Sweat darkens his hair at the temples, runs down the side of his neck.
“Cool down and stretch.”
James moves through the routine without being told the sequence. He knows it now. Good student when he stops fighting himself.
Jake settles onto the bench, legs extended, and digs his thumb into his right calf. The muscle is knotted tight from yesterday’s hill run—a hard knot buried deep in the belly of the muscle. He works at it, grimaces, stops.
“James.”
James looks up from his stretch.
“Come here.”
James crosses the room. Stands in front of Jake, waiting.
“My calves are fucked. You’re going to work them out.”
James’s expression shifts—confusion first, then a flicker of something that might be resistance. Then it smooths out. That blankness Jake knows well. The look that comes right before compliance.
“Okay.” James glances around. “You want me to grab the foam roller, or—”
“Use your hands. Grab that stool.”
Jake nods toward the low stool at the end of the bench. James moves to it, sits. His hands hover over Jake’s calf before settling on the muscle.
“Start lower. Ankle, then work your way up.”
James adjusts. His fingers dig in just above Jake’s ankle—firm pressure, slow circles. His technique is decent. But his shoulders are bunched up around his ears, his jaw tight. Thinking too hard about what he’s doing.
“You can go harder than that.”
James increases the pressure. His thumbs find the knot, work into it. Jake lets out a slow breath through his nose.
“Right there. Stay on that.”
James works the spot. His hands are warm, strong, steadier now that he has clear direction. He keeps his eyes fixed on Jake’s calf. Won’t look anywhere else.
Jake watches him. The concentration furrowing his brow. The flush creeping up the back of his neck. The way his breathing has gone shallow without him noticing.
“Nice. Keep working up.”
James’s hands slide up, working the belly of the muscle. He’s leaning forward on the stool, straining to reach. The angle is wrong.
“The angle’s wrong. You’ll do a better job with the correct angle.” Jake pauses. “Get on your knees. You’ll have better leverage from there.”
James looks up. His jaw tightens. A muscle twitches in his cheek.
“James.”
James slides off the stool. Lowers himself to his knees.
He’s eye level with Jake’s shins now. His hands return to the calf, and the angle is better—he can dig deeper, work the full length of the muscle. But his face has gone red, and his eyes stay fixed downward.
Jake lets the moment settle. The straight guy from the varsity team. The firm handshake. The loud laugh that fills every room he walks into. On his knees on the gym floor because Jake told him to be there.
The warmth of it spreads through Jake’s chest.
“That’s better. Keep going.”
James works up the calf. His hands find their rhythm—more confident now, pressing deep. He reaches Jake’s knee and pauses.
“Did I say stop?”
“I was just—”
“Quads are tight too. Keep going.”
James’s hands move past the knee, onto the thick slab of Jake’s thigh. His thumbs dig along the grain of the muscle, methodical, focused. His breathing has gone shallow. He’s pulling air through his mouth in quiet sips.
His hands push higher, sliding under the hem of Jake’s shorts to work the upper thigh. That’s when his rhythm falters.
Jake knows what he’s seeing. The bulge in Jake’s shorts—soft but heavy, the outline unmistakable through the thin fabric. Inches from James’s hands. Inches from his face.
James’s fingers freeze. His eyes stay fixed on it a beat too long. Jake watches him take in the size of it, the proximity, how little distance separates his knuckles from the weight of Jake’s cock.
James drags his gaze back to the muscle. His jaw is clenched so tight the tendons stand out in his neck. His hands have started to tremble.
“Now the other one.”
James shifts on his knees. Works through the same sequence on Jake’s left leg—ankle, calf, thigh. His movements are mechanical now, his breathing uneven. When his hands push under the shorts again, his knuckles brush the edge of Jake’s briefs.
He keeps going. But his eyes drift again—just for a heartbeat—to the shape straining the fabric. Closer on this side. Fuller.
He swallows. The sound is audible in the quiet gym.
“That’ll do. I’m good.”
James pulls his hands back like he’s been released from something. Sits on his heels, breathing hard, staring at the concrete floor. His shoulders sag with relief.
Jake stands. Stretches his calves, rolls his ankles. Takes his time with it.
“Feels better. You’re good at that.”
James nods without looking up. “Yeah. Sure.”
Jake reaches for his water bottle. Drinks slow. Watches James over the rim.
Still on his knees. Still staring at the floor. Still hasn’t looked at himself.
“You’re hard.”
James’s head snaps up. His eyes go wide—then drop to his own lap. Jake watches the realization hit. Watches the color drain from his face, then flood back twice as dark. The bulge in James’s shorts is obvious. Impossible to miss.
“I—” James scrambles to his feet, legs unsteady beneath him. His hands twitch toward his crotch, then freeze. He can’t decide what’s worse—covering it or leaving it exposed. “That’s not—I didn’t—”
“I didn’t ask for an explanation.”
James’s mouth works. Nothing comes out. He looks like a man standing in headlights, waiting for impact.
“It happens.” Jake keeps his voice flat. Casual. “You were on your knees for twenty minutes with your hands on me. Your body responded.”
“That’s not why—”
“Wasn’t a question, James.”
James goes quiet. His hands drop to his sides. There’s nothing to hide anymore. They both saw it.
“Same time Thursday.”
James blinks. “What?”
“Thursday. Upper body.”
“I can’t—” James shakes his head, takes a step back. “I don’t think I should—”
“You’ll be here.”
It’s not a question. Jake picks up a towel, wipes his face, tosses it toward the laundry bin. Doesn’t look at James.
James stands there. Chest heaving. Face flushed. He looks like he wants to say something—to explain, to deny, to make sense of what just crawled out of him.
He doesn’t.
He turns and walks out without a word. Doesn’t look back.
Jake hears the truck door slam. He finishes wiping down the bench, tosses the towel in the bin, and heads to his office. Grabs a beer from the mini fridge, drops into his chair, wakes up his computer.
The truck doesn’t start.
Jake scrolls through emails. Drinks his beer.
When the engine finally turns over, his cock stirs against his thigh. He glances at the clock.
Nineteen minutes.
Nineteen minutes James sat in that truck, gripping the wheel, trying to put himself back together. Trying to make sense of what his body did. What he saw. What he couldn’t stop looking at.
Jake takes a long pull of his beer.
He’ll be back Thursday. Will tell himself it’s just training. Will walk in with his walls rebuilt and his jaw set, pretending tonight never happened.
And Jake will put him on his knees again. Find out what else those hands will do when they’re told.
He’s patient.
He can wait.