#pc2

The gym is not your favorite place to be. Actually, it ranks somewhere between doing laundry and waiting in line at the bank. But this morning, for reasons you’re not quite ready to admit to yourself, you find yourself tagging along with Pau.

“Come with me,” he’d said last night, voice low and lazy from your shared spot on the couch. “We’ll stretch first. Just light stuff.”

Light stuff, your ass. Ten minutes in, and he’s already moved on to curling weights that are the size of his head. He’s got one in each hand, arms flexing, eyes focused straight ahead. You’re sitting on one of the benches behind him, supposedly tying your shoe or fixing your ponytail or doing anything that makes it okay for you to be staring.

You know it’s not the weights that are making your chest feel tight.

The gym mirror isn’t helping either. It reflects him in full - tall, lean, muscles flexed and sharp beneath his training shirt. There’s a little furrow in his brows like he’s actually deep in concentration, not just showing off for you. His hair is damp, sticking slightly to his forehead, and there’s a soft flush across his cheeks. You know it’s from the exertion, but still. It’s a look.

“You good over there?” he asks without turning around, voice casual but a little smug.

You snap your gaze down to your shoes, as if you weren’t just mentally undressing your boyfriend while he lifts dumbbells like he’s auditioning for a fitness magazine.

“Yeah,” you say, voice just a touch too high. “Totally fine.”

He finally turns, and it’s almost unfair how good he looks - sweaty and warm, with this barely-there grin that says he knows exactly what you were doing. He sets the weights down gently, stretching one arm across his chest.

“You’ve been tying that shoe for five minutes,” he points out.

You look down and realize you tied it three times already. You glare at him for catching you. “It’s complicated,” you say, which is dumb, but you’re in too deep now to back out.

Pau just laughs. Not a big loud one, but soft and under his breath, like he’s trying not to embarrass you in front of the others scattered across the gym. But there’s amusement in his eyes. And maybe something else.

He walks over to you and stands between your knees, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“You wanna try?” he asks, nodding at the weights behind him.

You blink. “You mean lift those?”

“No, the dumbbells from earlier. The lighter ones. Don’t worry, I’ll spot you.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re just trying to get me to embarrass myself.”

“Maybe,” he admits, smirking. “But I promise, you’ll look good doing it.”

You groan and swat at his thigh, but he catches your wrist before it lands. His fingers curl around yours and his skin is warm, a little sweaty, but not unpleasant.

“Come on,” he says, tugging you gently to your feet. “You owe me. You made me do yoga last weekend, remember?”

You scoff. “That was for your own good. Your flexibility is criminally bad.”

“And now it’s your turn to suffer.”

You roll your eyes, but let him pull you over anyway. He hands you a pair of lighter weights and steps behind you, hands ghosting near your arms like he’s ready to help but not quite touching. His breath is at your ear when he speaks.

“Slow and steady,” he murmurs. “Elbows tight. Engage your core.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” you mutter.

He chuckles, the sound brushing over your neck. “It means don’t half-ass it.”

You try. You really do. But your arms start shaking halfway through the third rep and you’re pretty sure your face is doing something deeply unattractive. Pau notices, obviously.

“You’re doing great,” he says, completely serious, like he’s your personal trainer or something. “So strong.”

You lower the weights with an exaggerated grunt. “You’re mocking me.”

He lifts his hands in defense. “Never. I’m just impressed.”

You look up at him suspiciously. “You’re trying to get laid later, aren’t you?”

He grins. “Always.”

You smack his chest lightly and he catches your hand again, this time pressing a kiss to your knuckles like he’s some sort of knight and not a sweaty eighteen-year-old who smells vaguely like protein powder and cologne.

“Okay, gym boy,” you say. “I’ve lifted your little weights. Now what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “My little weights?”

You wave a hand. “Fine. Your macho, giant, gym-god weights. Happy?”

He shrugs, that familiar half-smile dancing across his lips. “I liked ‘gym boy,’ actually.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too. He’s ridiculous. And charming. And annoyingly fit. And honestly, you wouldn’t mind doing this again, if only for the view.

He brushes a strand of hair out of your face with the back of his fingers. “Wanna sit down for a bit? Or… we could hit the mats. Do some core.”

You blink. “You mean planks?”

He nods.

“I’d rather die.”

He laughs again, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Alright. Bench cuddles it is.”

“You’re so gross,” you mumble, but you let him pull you down onto the bench with him anyway, both of you sweaty and tangled, resting against the mirror with his arm slung around your waist.

He taps his phone on with his free hand and opens the front camera. “Smile.”

“Delete that right now,” you say immediately, seeing your post-workout mess on screen.

“Nope,” he says, pressing the shutter button. “Gotta keep proof that you lifted.”

You grab for the phone, but he holds it above your head. “Pau.”

“I’ll crop myself in next to you with a dumbbell in each hand,” he says, snickering. “Caption it: couples who train together...”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I won’t. I’ll just keep it for myself.”

You pause. “Really?”

He looks at you, his expression softer now. “Yeah. Gotta have something to look at next time I’m stuck at camp without you.”

You don’t have a comeback for that. Not really. You just lean into his side and let your head rest against his shoulder, listening to the faint hum of the gym, the low chatter of other players around you.

“You’re still a show-off,” you murmur.

“And you’re still staring.”

“Whatever,” you say, closing your eyes. “You love it.”