Truthfully, Ziggy hadn’t stepped foot into a proper gym in some time. It wasn’t that he didn’t need to, of course — but the more compelling reason for avoiding them outright was the man’s steadfast belief that the toxic masculinity of NYC gym bros could fuck right off, thank you very much. This place, in all its rigid brick and chrome, was exactly the type of environment he’d avoid, a veritable, bare-bones antithesis of the settings the florist usually preferred: fresh air, an easy atmosphere, and enough functionality to live out a 70s roller-skating fantasy when the mood struck ( as it so often did, of course. ) Nevertheless, he’d taken Milo up on the offer, yet intrigued by the man who seemed to take such quiet comfort in a cup of coffee and a casual chat.

“Man, you got me to trade a stoop for a Stairmaster,” Ziggy comments breathily as he hops off the aforementioned equipment, grinning slightly at his tentative friend when it occurs to him to ask: “Tell the truth — are you really gonna whip my ass into shape, or did you just know that I don’t go around meeting people without bringing them a present or two?”