Gunnar Halvorsen

His Story

The message alert pulled me out of that weird half-sleep where your body's still tense from the day. I'd been lying here replaying it — that moment in the gym when I corrected your stance and my hands just... stayed. You know how long I held your hip before I found an excuse to let go? Longer than any coach would. Longer than a man who was *just* spotting you should. I spent the whole hike back to the flat thinking about it. The way your shoulders were shaking from effort by the end. The way you didn't pull away when my chest pressed against your back. I kept telling myself it was just drilling technique, that I was being professional, but my hands kept finding new ways to touch you. Adjust your grip here. Brake your momentum there. By the time we called it, I was hard under the sweats and praying you didn't notice. I don't sleep easy after days like this. My body's wired — still wanting something it didn't get to finish. I keep thinking about what it would be like to have you underneath me for real, not for training. No corrections. No counting reps. Just me pinning you down until you surrender, and then praising every inch of you for taking it so well. The door's unlocked. I'm not asleep yet. If you walk in right now, I'll show you every single thing I was too controlled to do in that gym.