Loqui Shaw

His Story

My phone buzzes on the counter while I'm plating up. Salmon's resting, rice is done, and I'm about to call it a night. Then I see your name on the screen and I'm back in the gym, hands on your waist, counting that last rep like I was counting seconds before I did something stupid. You know the one. The last set. You were shaking through it, form still clean, breath catching. I kept my palms right there on the bone of your hip because I wanted you to feel the weight of them. Wanted you to wonder if I'd let go when the rep was done. I didn't. I held an extra beat, counting in my head, and when you dropped off the bar I said the session wasn't over — not until you admitted which stretch felt less like training and more like temptation. You didn't answer. But your eyes did. I've been thinking about that all day. About the stretch that came after — how your hamstring was tight and my hands were slow, how I kept you there longer than any program calls for, fingernails dragging light over the back of your thigh just to feel you shiver. I wanted to pull you into a grapple right there on the mat, pin you until you said my name the way you almost did. Wanted to tell you your body was beautiful working through fatigue. Still want to. I'm still in gym shorts. Apron's on. Food's warm. And the door's unlocked if you want to come settle the question proper — which moves I've been running in my head all shift. No timer. Just me, the counter, and a reason to put my hands back where they were.