Morning workout

John woke to the sound of movement—soft thuds, faint grunts, and the rhythmic thump of a workout playlist playing somewhere just beyond the closed bedroom door. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to snap him out of sleep.

He rolled over. The other side of the bed was empty.

He blinked at the clock. 6:42 a.m.

Claire was never up this early. Not unless she had a shift, which she didn’t today. And Marcus? That guy didn’t do mornings. At least, not until now.

John sat up, listening more carefully. There was the low creak of a mat, a thud, the sound of someone catching their breath. Then Claire’s voice floated through the door—light, breathless, amused.

“You’re seriously trying to kill me.”

Marcus’s voice followed, cool and casual. “That’s just your muscles waking up.”

Something about the tone made John’s stomach tighten. He stood, padded silently to the bedroom door, and eased it open an inch.

The hallway was dimly lit by early light filtering through the blinds. The voices were louder now—laughs, the occasional word of encouragement from Marcus.

John moved slowly, soundlessly, until he could see just enough of the living room from the hallway.

The scene stopped him cold.

Marcus was shirtless, glistening with sweat. His shoulders were broad, muscles taut, every move slow and deliberate. Claire was in front of him on a yoga mat, her body bent forward, arms extended. She wore a black sports bra and a pair of tight, high-cut shorts—ones John didn’t recognize.

Her back arched slightly as she exhaled, her chest rising and falling. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a few strands clinging to the sides of her face. She was glowing, flushed—not just from the exertion.

She moved to adjust her pose and dropped to all fours.

Marcus knelt behind her.

John’s breath caught.

“Keep your hips squared,” Marcus said. His voice was low, instructional.

He placed both hands on her waist. Firm. Grounded.

Claire’s breath stuttered slightly.

John’s eyes dropped lower—and that’s when he saw it. Marcus shifted his position, and his hips moved closer. His gym shorts hung loose, and through them, John could see the outline of his cock, hanging thick and low. As he adjusted Claire’s hips, the weight of it came down—pressing lightly against the curve of her ass.

Claire froze.

John leaned closer, barely daring to breathe.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she held the position. Let him correct her form. Let his cock rest against her.

A pause stretched between them.

Then Marcus spoke, quiet but clear. “You feel that?”

Claire’s voice came a second later, soft. “Yeah.”

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Then, after a long beat, Marcus eased back and stood.

“Switch sides,” he said, like nothing had happened.

Claire rocked back onto her heels. Her cheeks were red. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, eyes lowered. John couldn’t tell if she was blushing from the exertion—or the contact.

He stepped back, heart pounding. Turned and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

He leaned on the sink, breathing hard.

His hands were shaking.

He splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. What he’d just felt.

Because it wasn’t just jealousy.

It was heat.

Claire came back to the bedroom twenty minutes later.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just peeled off the damp sports bra and shorts, her skin glowing, muscles soft and warm. She stood in front of the dresser in nothing but a thong, toweling her neck.

John watched from the bed.

She pulled on one of his oversized T-shirts, then climbed into bed beside him.

“Morning,” she said quietly.

“Hey.”

She leaned in, kissed his cheek. “You sleep okay?”

“I guess.”

Claire settled against him, her bare legs brushing his. “Marcus is actually a good trainer. Focused. Calm.”

“Yeah,” John said.

She smiled. “He said I have tight hips.”

John looked up at the ceiling. “Did he.”

“Mmhmm.” She stretched, exhaled. “He helped me open them up.”

Silence.

She turned her head, eyes on his profile. “You’re being quiet.”

He nodded. “Just tired.”

Claire moved closer, her fingers tracing the hem of his shirt. “You could join us tomorrow, you know.”

“I don’t think I could keep up.”

She giggled. “Probably not.”

He turned to look at her. Her eyes sparkled, playful—but beneath it was something else. Something heavier.

She leaned over him, her hand moving to his chest.

“We’re just working out,” she said softly. “It’s good for me.”

“I know.”

“But it’s kind of hot, isn’t it?” she added.

John didn’t answer.

“I mean, watching me stretch with him. Seeing me sweat. Feeling sore after.”

He exhaled slowly.

Claire grinned. “You were watching, weren’t you?”

He nodded, just once.

She kissed his jaw. “Good.”

Then she rolled away from him, pulling the covers up.

John lay beside her, stiff, hard, confused—and fully aware that things had changed again.

She hadn’t pulled away.

She’d felt him.

And she’d let it happen.