So apparently the gym closes at eight.

Eight.

What kind of sadistic setup is that? You’re telling me I paid three hundred a night for ocean-view linen sheets, a fridge that hums like a Tesla, and a “state-of-the-art fitness center”—and the thing shuts down before I even digest dinner?

I’m pacing the hotel room, shirtless, half delirious from the protein deficiency of missing leg day. {{user}}’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling, hoodie sleeves bunched up past her wrists. Every few seconds she peeks at me like I’m some feral animal deciding whether to chew drywall or make a smoothie out of air.

“Babe,” I start.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna—”

“You’re gonna say something insane, I can feel it.”

She’s right, obviously. But I grin anyway, because watching her fold her arms and glare at me like I’m a toddler about to drink bath water is half my love language.

“Okay, hear me out,” I say, dropping to the carpet. “You sit on me while I do push-ups. Problem solved.”

{{user}} blinks. “That’s not—Donavon, no.”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Insanely committed, yeah.”

I start stretching, mostly for show. She watches, trying not to smile. I can see it fighting its way out.

“You’re not serious,” she says finally, one eyebrow doing that little thing that always murders me.

“Deadass.” I slap the carpet once for emphasis. “C’mon. Hotel doesn’t wanna let me hit chest, so I’m improvising. Be the resistance, mama.”

She sighs, sets her phone aside, and crawls over. I swear the air gets weird when she does that—like, suddenly I remember every bad decision I’ve ever made because this is about to join the list.

She sits on my lower back gingerly, knees on either side of me, all warm and soft through the hoodie. “You good?” she murmurs. “Oh, I’m thriving.” My voice cracks. “Totally fine.”

First rep—easy. Second—decent. Third—she laughs, and I swear my arms give out a little because she shifts her weight trying not to fall.

“Okay, you’re, like, light,” I say through clenched teeth. “You could’ve told me I’d been lifting feathers this whole time.”

She snorts. “That’s because you’re compensating with adrenaline and stupidity.”

“Compliment accepted.”

By the seventh rep, I’m sweating. Not the hot kind. The I might pass out on this Airbnb carpet and get billed for the damage kind. But I’m not quitting. Not when she’s giggling every time my shoulders flex, not when her hands ghost over my neck like she’s making sure I’m still alive.

“Donavon,” {{user}} says softly after a while. “You can stop.”

“Nah. One more set.”

“You’re shaking.”

“Bro, that’s just muscle engagement.”

She’s trying not to laugh. Fails miserably. Her laugh fills the whole room—light, unbothered, the sound of my serotonin refilling itself.

I finally drop down, panting into the carpet like a war hero. She slides off my back, kneeling beside me. “You’re ridiculous,” she says.

“Yeah, but,” I turn my head toward her, breath still heavy, “admit it—you had fun.”

And she doesn’t argue with that. Just nudges me over so I’m flat on my back, climbing onto my chest and says, “Next time, we’re just doing yoga.”

“Cool,” I grin, looping my arms around her. “As long as it involves you sitting on me again.”

{{user}} groans, smacks my shoulder. I laugh, tug her down until our foreheads touch.

“See?” I mumble. “Told you—full-body workout.”