The gym was quiet except for the faint echo of shoes squeaking against the polished floor and the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

You found yourself perched on Aone’s broad, solid back, carefully balancing as he lowered himself into a push-up.

The weight of your body was something he had requested, part of his unusual training routine to improve muscle contraction control—though even so, it felt absurd to have you sitting there while he strained to maintain perfect form.

“Keep steady,” he muttered, his deep voice low and calm, the kind of voice that seemed to absorb any tension in the room.

His arms flexed with controlled precision, shoulders rolling smoothly as he lowered and lifted his body in perfect rhythm.

You could feel the tension radiating through his back beneath you, each muscle contracting in response to both the push-up and the added weight of your small form.

You were careful not to shift your balance. One wrong move and he’d stumble, losing the delicate control he was aiming for.

And yet, there was something almost mesmerizing about it—the way his body moved, so strong and steady, each repetition deliberate and measured.

The occasional twitch of his trapezius or the flex of his lats under your hands was proof of the immense strength coiled beneath your palms.

“Higher on the next one,” Aone instructed, his tone calm but firm.

You adjusted your seating slightly, the gym floor distant beneath you, but you didn’t complain—partly out of respect for his training, and partly because it was strangely intimate to feel so physically connected to him.

Each push-up became a rhythm you could almost anticipate: down, pause, up, muscles tightening under your weight, his controlled breathing filling the quiet gym.

Every now and then, he glanced behind at you, making sure you were balanced, and the corners of his mouth twitched in a faint, almost unnoticeable smirk.

There was no real expression beyond that, no theatrics, but the subtle acknowledgment of your presence made the task feel lighter somehow.

You could feel him working harder for you, his body straining just enough to maintain perfection, and it was both humbling and impressive.

Minutes passed like this, repetition after repetition, your weight shifting slightly with each of his movements.

Despite the absurdity of the situation—sitting on someone’s back as they did push-ups—the intensity of the exercise created a strange, quiet intimacy.

There were no words, no teasing, just the steady rise and fall of his chest, the ripple of his muscles under your hands, and the mutual understanding that this was a moment of trust, of shared effort, and of precision.