Lina, of course

You step out of the men's room, freshly dressed. Your old clothes fit like magic, snug in all the right places, sleeves hugging your arms, hoodie draping perfectly over your new frame. The waistband stretches just enough to handle the heavy weight swinging between your legs. The air hits your chest differently.

You walk past the mirror by the water fountain. You stop. You look.

It’s still you, only not really.

Your jaw looks sharper. Your eyes darker, and deeper, like you're always on the hunt for something. The hair on your head is thicker and done like you just walked off a fitness shoot. Your t-shirt is stretched across your muscly chest.

Your {Cock_inches}-inch dick is half hard all the time it's not fully hard, it seems, and it looks massive, even through the fabric. It would be impossible to not look down at it when you walk past. You adjust yourself casually, like it's no big deal. Like you've been carrying that thing all your life.

A guy at the dumbbell rack does a double take. You don’t even glance back.

You spot the blonde again, the one from the treadmill, now by the stretching mats. She pauses mid-hip thrust and glances your way with a little smirk. Not surprised, not impressed, just... level. Like you're hot, she's hot, and you both know it. You ignore her for now. Maybe... later.

Because Lina is who you want. You head up to squat racks. The latina goddess has tied her shirt up under her sports bra now, her flat tummy bare. Her eyes land on you, casually. Like nothing’s changed. Like you've always looked like this. You later learn that this is what the ring does. It changes reality, past and present, at least when it comes to other people's minds.

"You back for round two?" she says, walking past with a grin. "Big energy today. Or just trying to work that adrenaline out after what happened with that guy?"

"Yeah," you say, voice low and steady. "That was intense. Needed to sweat it out, clear my head."

You roll your shoulders, arms flexing just enough to show the stretch of your sleeves. Her eyes drop, very casually, to your chest. Then lower. You make a show of adjusting your waistband. The bulge is unmistakable.

Lina raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. Instead, she tosses her towel over her shoulder and walks beside you toward the squat rack.

"You spotting me or what?" she asks. Like it's obvious. Like it’s normal. Like you've always done it.

"Sure," you say, matching her energy. Confident. Calm. Like this happens every day.

She racks the bar and starts warming up, and you take your place behind her. Watching her move is a workout by itself. Her hips tilt, the leggings pull tight across her ass, every line perfect, every motion smooth. She's in full control of her body, of the room, of your attention. And she knows it. Her ass pushes back with every rep, tight and round in those sprayed-on leggings. You can smell her sweat, sweet and sharp. She glances over her shoulder once and catches you looking. Doesn't say a word.

"You training late because of the crowd earlier?" she asks between sets.

"Nah. Just needed to move. My wife's got friends over. They're going clubbing tonight."

"Ah," she says, loading another plate. "So you're all alone here tonight."

"Looks like it."

She bends into her next rep, slower this time. Controlled. Showing off.

"You always train this hard when you're left unsupervised?"

You smirk. "Depends who's watching."

She lets out a low laugh. It's not loud, but it's real. She reracks the bar and turns, one hand brushing your stomach as she steadies herself.

"Good spot," she says, voice husky. "You’ve got great presence behind me."

"Any time."

You don’t talk about your wife again.

And Lina doesn’t ask.