The friends meet Rob

For the next 20 minutes, Juan, Isaac and I watched the NBA game, each cheering and shoving each other like we were still in high school while Dmitri watched on in silence. It was fun.

Suddenly, a figure entered the room.

"Remember me?" the figure spoke.

Silence filled the air.

Everybody looked up at the figure.

"Rough Rob?" Juan exclaimed, perplexed.

Rob smirked, stepping into the orange glow of the overhead light. He'd changed—now wearing a thin white wifebeater, his torso gleaming with sweat as though he'd just finished another "session." His thick fingers drummed against his belt buckle. "Yeah, me. And you're still the same pipsqueaks, huh?" His eyes flicked to Dmitri, sizing him up before dismissing him with a chuckle. "Except for Boris here."

Dmitri's smile was slow—like oil separating from blood. His cracked lips stretched wide, revealing yellowed teeth filed unnaturally sharp. The sofa groaned as he leaned forward. "Rob," he rumbled, butchering the name into something guttural. "Ah yes. John cry in shower because of you." His boot tapped a rhythm against the floorboards—three slow beats. "You... popular." The way he said it wasn't admiration. It was the tone a butcher uses discussing livestock.

Juan rubbed his neck, glancing between Rob's flexing biceps and Dmitri's coiled stillness. "So wait—Rob, you're John's personal trainer now?" His voice cracked on the last word, eyes darting to the kitchen where Rachel's humming drifted through the doorway. Rob smirked, rolling his shoulders until the wifebeater strained at the seams. "Not John's," he corrected, popping the 'p'. The scent of coconut oil and Rachel's perfume clung to him. "His wife's. Intensive... fascia realignment specialist." He flexed his right hand absently, the calluses rasping against his thigh. "She's a quick learner."

A clatter of pans from the kitchen made us all flinch—except Dmitri. His pale eyes tracked Rob like a scope settling on prey. "You touch wife?" he asked, interested. The air conditioner kicked on, swirling the musk of Rob's sweat toward the couch where Isaac gagged silently.

"Focus, guys!" I wedged myself between them, jabbing at the TV remote. "Look—overtime!" The screen flared to life: Lakers down by three with 3.2 seconds left. Juan whooped reflexively, pumping a fist. "LeBron's gonna work his magic."

Isaac snorted. "Magic? He's a glorified—" The kitchen door swung open. Rachel sauntered in balancing a tray of sliders—her hips swaying exaggeratedly, each step making her cleavage bounce. Rob trailed behind, his palm hovering inches from her ass like a heat sensor. Dmitri's boot resumed its tapping—one, two—as Rachel bent to serve the snacks. Her shirt gaped open, revealing the edge of a black lace bra. Rob's smirk deepened.

Juan whooped, grabbing a slider. "Hell yeah! ****, you're the best!" Isaac punched Juan, "Ha! Three pointer!"

I glanced at Rachel, sweaty. Dmitri and Rob were the only ones not focused on the game, instead giving their full attention to Rachel. Rob smirked at Dmitri, before giving Rachel's ass a firm pat, making her yelp slightly. Dmitri's fingers curled into fists, his knuckles cracking loud enough to make Isaac flinch. Rachel straightened, oblivious, adjusting her shirt with a happy hum. "Who wants extra guac?" she chirped, swaying back toward the kitchen. Rob's grin widened as he watched her go, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Dmitri leaned forward suddenly, his boot stopping mid-tap. His whisper was low—more of a growl, really—but the venom in it cut through the cheers of the game. "You been touching wife?" Dmitri seemed excited. Too excited.

Rob chuckled, cracking his neck lazily. "Not just touching," he bragged, rolling his shoulders. "Educating." He flicked his gaze toward the kitchen where Rachel giggled over something, the sound like wind chimes. "See, Dmitri"—Rob pronounced it *Dmeetree*, mockingly—"some women are born gullible. Rachel?" He snorted. "She's a fucking sponge. Tell her fat dissolves through 'lymphatic pulsing' and she spreads her thighs before you finish the sentence." He mimed kneading air, fingers working an invisible shape. "Says 'thank you' while you're elbow-deep in her pussy claiming it's 'fascia release.'"

Dmitri's breathing hitched. A flush crept up his thick neck—not anger. His fingers dug into the sofa armrest, fabric ripping. "She... she believe this?" His accent thickened, voice husky.