Following Orders

As I move to the bench press, I load the bar, my hands still faintly trembling as I lie back on the cold vinyl. The bar is heavier than it needs to be, and I know it before I even unrack it. It settles into my hands with a solid, unforgiving weight, pressing down through my wrists into my shoulders as if it is testing whether I deserve to move it.

The bench is cold against my back, the overhead lights too bright. As I begin my first, shaky press, his shadow falls over me. He doesn't touch the bar, but his presence is a physical weight, his eyes tracking the line of my arms, the strain in my chest. "Lower," he commands softly as I push up. "Control the descent."

The rest of the gym fades into something distant and unimportant. There is only the bar, my breath, and the slow, deliberate rhythm I choose to set. I press the weight upward, smooth and controlled, locking out without any strain. I lower it again just as carefully, stopping just above my chest and holding it there for a moment longer than necessary before driving it back up. The movement is clean. Efficient. Safe.

“Again,” he says. I do not turn my head, but I am aware of him all the same. He stands just behind me, close enough that I can feel the presence of him without seeing it. One of his hands hovers beneath the bar, not touching, not assisting, simply there, ready. The other stays near the rack. He is not helping me lift. He is watching me lift. I lower the bar again.

His crotch is directly above my line of sight, a heavy, prominent bulge straining against the thin fabric of his athletic shorts. With each breath I take under the weight of the bar, it seems to swell, an undeniable, looming presence that dominates my world. The musky scent of him fills my nostrils with every labored exhale.

My focus fractures; the burn in my muscles is secondary to the hot flush crawling up my neck. He watches my struggle, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Eyes forward, Bells," he murmurs, though his own gaze remains fixed on the intimate display just inches from my face. "The weight won't lift itself."

Halfway through the next press, his voice cuts through the rhythm. “You are holding back.” The bar pauses for the briefest moment, not enough to fail, not enough to falter, but enough that I hear him. I finish the repetition and guide the bar back into the rack with a controlled motion before sitting up.

I rest my forearms on my thighs and look back at him over my shoulder. “You figured that out from one set,” I say.

“I figured it out from how you move,” he replies. I study him for a long second, letting the silence stretch the way I usually do when I want someone else to fill it. Most people do. He does not. I reach for my water bottle, take a slow drink, and keep my eyes on him the entire time.

“Maybe I like holding back,” I say.

“Then you will not improve.” There is no challenge in his voice, no attempt to provoke me. It is simply a statement, placed in front of me as if it cannot be argued with. Something about that lands harder than it should.

I screw the cap back onto the bottle and tilt my head slightly as I consider him. “Are you always this pleasant,” I ask, “or am I getting special treatment?”

“You are getting my attention,” he says. That does not sound like a compliment. It sounds like something I should take more seriously than I want to. I should stand up, walk away, and leave him there with his certainty and his quiet, invasive way of reading people.

Instead, I remain where I am, sitting on the edge of the bench, meeting his eyes as if I have already decided to stay. “Your attention,” I repeat. He nods once, as though that is the only part of the conversation that matters.

“Get back under the bar,” he says. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, and then I lie back down. I do not need another set. I was finished. I know I was finished. Still, I slide my hands back into position and tighten my grip around the bar. He steps closer, one hand moving under the bar again, the other hovering near the center.

He does not touch it. He does not help. He simply positions himself so that he could. “Unrack it,” he says. I do. “Lower it.” I bring the bar down slowly, more deliberately than before, until it hovers just above my chest. “Hold it there.” I hold.

The weight presses down, and my muscles engage to keep it steady. It is no longer comfortable, but it is not yet strain. It is something sharper than that, something that demands attention. “Press.” I drive the bar upward, controlled, steady, stronger than the last set.

“Again.” I lower it. “Hold.” I hold again, longer this time. “Press.” I push. Each repetition follows the same pattern. Each instruction comes at exactly the right moment, as though he understands the rhythm of my body better than I do. By the fourth repetition, I feel the burn beginning to build.

By the sixth, it has settled into something deeper, something that requires focus to push through. “You adjust quickly,” he says. There is no praise in it. No approval. It is simply another observation, delivered with the same calm certainty as everything else he has said.

I complete the set and guide the bar back into the rack. My arms are steady, but the tension remains in them as I sit up slowly and roll my shoulders once. I turn to face him fully. “Why are you watching me like I am something you need to fix,” I ask.

“That is almost correct,” he says. I let out a quiet breath that borders on a laugh, though there is no humor in it.

“Who are you,” I ask.

He considers the question as if it is not one he is used to answering. “My name is Phil,” he says finally. Just that. No explanation. No extension.

“Phil,” I repeat. “Is that all you are going to give me?”

“That is enough for now,” he says. It is not, but I let it go.

“My name is Jezebel,” I say. “Most people call me Bells.” He nods once, and something in the way he does it tells me he will remember.