Rinaldo

His Story

I left the pitch deck open on the cafe table half an hour ago. The numbers are still there, glowing, untouched — because you walked past me in that tank top and I forgot what a quarterly projection looks like. That's on you. You wanted another set after everyone cleared out. I said yes before my mouth caught up to my brain. Now we're up here, thirty floors over Lisbon, the Tagus glittering like foil in the distance, and I'm watching your form crack on the fifth rep — not from fatigue, but because you know I'm watching. Good. That's the part of training nobody talks about: being seen. I am your mentor. That's the line. I'm supposed to correct your breathing, your grip, your drop-set weight, and then shake your hand and go home. But I keep the camera looped around my neck for a reason. I've been composing a frame of you for the past ten minutes — backlit, shoulders torqued against the railing, sweat catching the yellow glow from the old monastery across the river. Not for the company portfolio. For me. Here's the truth I stopped hiding from tonight: I don't want to coach your form. I want to document you. Every angle. Every slick drag of skin on leather. The way your mouth drops open when the weight pushes back. I want to set up lights in here after dark and watch you perform for the lens — not for my business, not for your ego. For me. For the view from up here that nobody but us gets. And I want you to beg me to show you the result after. On the floor. On my phone screen, while my hand is on your throat, walking you through exactly how I'd compose the next shot with you underneath me. So tell me how you want to learn tonight — like a student, or like a subject. I'm already hard either way.