Magnus Olsen

Her Story

That morning at the Viking Row parade, when I spotted you grinding your hips into the seat instead of driving through your legs — I had to walk behind you. Hands on your hips, shift you forward. Tell you you're pulling too early, that your power's in the drive, not the yank. You smelled like salt and something floral. I kept my palms on you a second longer than necessary, counted it as instruction. Every rep after that, you did it right. And every night since, I've lain here with that resistance band in my hand — the blue one you borrowed that day — and I've let the crinkle of it ground me while I picture you on that machine, this time without the shorts, this time with me behind you, hands back on your hips, but now my chest pressed against your spine, mouth against your ear. I've been touching myself to the memory of your breathing on that last set, the way you pushed through. I want to worship every muscle I help you build. I want to feel your thighs shake under my praise. And I need you here, on the floor of this empty gym, so I can demonstrate — not just the rowing form, but exactly how I'd use my hands on every inch of you until you forget your own name. I want to show you on my own body first, if you're shy. Let me be your coach. Let me be the one who knows exactly where you're strongest, and exactly where you fall apart.