Time to lift

You're warm and sweaty from the treadmill. The blonde smiles at you when you pass her on your way to the faucet to fill up your bottle. Friendly, perhaps, but still a nice feeling.

You drink from your bottle, and notice a big, strong guy entering the gym. Not Arnold, but tall and fit. Early thirties, maybe? Clean-cut, broad chest under a tight moisture-wicking tee, with the kind of relaxed confidence that comes from knowing you're in your prime. You kinda low-key wish you had that kind of body. Built. Athletic. Effortless.

He nods at the front desk and heads straight for the bench press like a man on a mission.

You return to your mat, finish your last few stretches, and start your light dumbbell routine. Nothing crazy, just enough to keep the blood pumping.

From the corner of your eye, you notice him again, heading toward the treadmills. He hops on the same treadmill you used. Starts at a brisk walk. Increases to a jog, then a fast run. You can hear the belt under his feet, smooth and steady.

You carefully sneak a glance at the two college freshmen doing squats, making sure to only do passing glimpses in the corner of your eye, in the mirror. Their asses look so fine in their tights. You decide to try one more time to get Riley to start using yoga pants or something. She always says no, too revealing. But that's the point, right?

Your thoughts are interrupted by a sudden, big THUD that surprises everyone.

You turn.

Where did the fit guy go? All you see is an old man, collapsed behind the threadmill. Face down, one arm twitching, drool coming from his face. You freeze for half a second, then scramble to your feet and run over. He’s wheezing. Struggling. One eye is open but unfocused, and his mouth gapes like he’s trying to shout, but can’t. He looks about ninety. Where the hell did he come from? Who let him into the gym?

"Shit," you whisper, dropping to your knees. "Someone call 911! I think he slipped on the threadmill!"

You look over to the belt on the treadmill you used earlier. All wet with your sweat. Fuck. It's your fault!

Lina is already there, yanking her AirPods out. "I got it, John," she snaps, tapping her phone with one hand while checking his pulse with the other. "No pulse. Starting CPR."

You kneel beside her, adrenaline hammering. Lina is fully focused, straddling the guy's chest, arms locked, tits bouncing slightly with every compression. Her sports bra is dark with sweat now, and her abs flex hard with each push. You try not to stare, but you're only human. She's so fucking hot.

As she leans in for a breath, her ponytail brushes your cheek. Her scent is intoxicating , sweat, shampoo, something sweet. Her cleavage nearly spills as she tilts forward. You're about to lean back when something glints on the floor nearby, a ring. Heavy, gold, with strange etching along the edge. You pick it up. Still warm. Wet. Must've slipped off in the sweat and movement. You hesitate only a second before palming it, sliding it into your hoodie pocket.

You take over compressions when Lina tires, counting out loud while her breath brushes past your cheek as she leans down for rescue breaths. The guy's chest rises and falls, but he’s still out cold.

When the ambulance finally arrives, you’re both soaked in sweat. The paramedics rush in, take over, and wheel him out fast. One of them claps your shoulder. "You two might have saved his life."

You nod, dazed. But your hand is still in your pocket, curled around the ring. It's hot now. Like it's waiting.

Lina exhales and leans against the wall beside you.

"Where the hell did that guy even come from?" she says, brushing hair from her face.

You glance toward the door the paramedics just wheeled him through.

"I know. That was... weird. I hope he survives."

She nods.

"Yeah. You did good, by the way. Not everyone would step in like that."

You shrug.

"You were the one doing the real work."

She pats your shoulder, then walks off to the reception area. You watch her go, her hips swaying under her leggings.

You exhale, still shaking slightly, and step into the men's room. Alone at last.

Just you. And the ring.