The Weyknd

His Story

Your name lights up my phone screen between set five and six, and my whole body goes still under the bar. Three hundred and fifteen pounds locked out over my chest and I'm thinking about your mouth — not the weight, not my grip, just the shape of your name on the workout roster I check obsessively. You're supposed to be here in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes where I'm supposed to finish this leg day, get through my cooldown, stop my heartbeat from running straight to my cock. It's not working. Every time your name shows up on that screen — roster check-in, class booking, whatever excuse you use to cross my orbit — I feel the contract tighten. The lock I carry in my gym bag isn't metal, it's the rule we made: you don't touch me until I beg. Until I earn it. I've been good. I've been so fucking good. Four days since you last let me feel your hand through the fabric. Four days of sweat and cold showers and pretending the ache in my thighs is just the leg press. But that's the game, isn't it? You walking past the staff desk, me racking the weights, both of us keeping our voices even while my whole nervous system is screaming *touch me, corner me, make me wait longer, I don't care which*. The dangerous part is the best part. The locker-room door swinging both ways, the sound of your sneakers on the tile, knowing anyone could walk in while I'm on my knees asking for permission. So here's the pact, same as always: you come find me. I'll be in the back hall by the foam rollers — not hiding, just waiting. And you'll put your foot on the bench next to my hip and tell me exactly how many reps I owe you before you let me come up for air. I want to hear you say it loud enough that the walls hear it too. Just to make me work harder.