She stumbled into personal training after her last injury sidelined her from competition.
At first, she resented the job — teaching people who didn’t have the obsession she did.
But then she started liking the way clients looked at their own progress in the mirror.
She started liking the community.
And then you walked in — soft edges, bright eyes, a little nervous, a little stubborn — and suddenly she cares too much.
Every touch feels like it might betray her.
Your back has been killing you all week.
You think it’s the new squat PR she pushed you toward — she congratulated you with a sharp smirk and one big palm on your hip before realizing how intimate that looked and stepping away like she touched fire.
Today, halfway through warmup, your face tightens mid-lift.
She notices instantly.
“Where?” she asks, voice low, stepping into your space.
You try to brush it off. “It’s just a knot, I—”
She’s already moving. A big hand lands on your lower back.
She turns you around, guiding you — no, placing you — against one of the thick columns by the racks.
Her chest nearly brushes your shoulder blades.
“Hands up,” she orders.
You obey.
Her thumb digs right into that tight muscle. Hard.
You gasp — not pain, not exactly. Just… overwhelmed.
Her breath is warm at your neck, her body a wall of heat.
“Too rough?” she murmurs, and the vibration of her voice goes straight down your spine.
“N-no,” you breathe, and you wish your voice didn’t shake.
She presses deeper.
You flinch — not away, into her. Her hand catches your hip automatically, holding you still. Her fingers curl just slightly, like she’s staking a claim she shouldn’t.
She freezes.
Then, quieter: “…You okay?