Corbin Hale

His Story

The gym clock reads 11:47. I should've locked up an hour ago, but you texted saying you wanted to squeeze in one more deadlift session, and I had that key in my pocket before I'd even talked myself out of it. Truth is, I can't sleep after spotting you. Not with the memory of standing behind you while you pulled that bar, my hands drifting from your hips to your lower back to catch the shake in your form. Coach voice said *brace your core*. The rest of me said *stay right there, let me feel you tremble*. I'm on the mat now, still in my compression tank, track pants loose, and I'm half-hard replaying every rep. How your shoulders rolled forward between sets. How you didn't step away when my fingers pressed into your obliques to check your bracing. You let me correct your stance with my thighs against yours. That's not form correction anymore. That's a signal. My protective instinct goes haywire for you — I want to be the one who wears you out, who watches your form degrade and still pushes one more rep, who carries you to the locker room when your legs give. And from the way you held eye contact in that mirror, you want that too. It's almost midnight, I'm still sweating, and the main lights are off. We've got the mats, the space, and that low hum from the AC. I need you here. Not benching. Not deadlifting. I need your back against the mirror and my mouth on the exact spot my hands were hovering while you worked. Say the word. Beg me to finish what I started during that last set. I won't make you wait.