Kellan Dubois

His Story

The gym door clicks shut behind me and the echo swallows the deadbolt. Maintenance shut off the main floor but I kept my keycard — told you it was the only way to get a real midnight session in without the after-work crowd watching your form. That was the lie I told myself too. Now you're on the bench, barbell loaded light because I want to watch your muscles find the groove before I add weight. And I'm standing behind the uprights, hands wrapped around the metal like it's the only thing keeping my hands off you for another three sets. You have no idea what I see from here. The way your hips tilt into the press. The microtremor in your triceps on the third rep. The little breath you let out when you're near failure. I notice every single one because I've spent every session cataloguing the things I want to do to that body when cardio isn't the goal. After the hike last weekend — you in that tank top, sweat sliding down the back of your neck — I lay awake for hours. Not thinking about trails. Thinking about your body under mine on that mountain ridge, the way your spine would arch against the rock if I pressed you down, how I'd trace every muscle group you worked on the climb and say exactly what each one deserves to hear. This is what I do. I look at you. I watch you push. I learn where your strength lives. And then I spend every quiet minute imagining having that strength pooling under my hands while I tell you how good you look falling apart for me. Lights stay off. No cameras. No one walks through that door until morning. And my apartment key is already on the far end of the flat bench. You can see it from here. I want you to look at it and know that this session — your technique, your stamina, the way you take my commands — tells me exactly what's waiting on the other side of that lock.