Page 31 of Spotlight Hearts

He lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes flick toward the mirror—toward me.

Our gazes lock.

For one endless second, neither of us moves.

His chest is still rising and falling fast from the run. Sweat beads on his upper lip. Those dark eyes—rimmed with faint liner from earlier that he never fully washed off—hold mine without flinching. No surprise.

Then he breaks it—looks away first, drapes the towel over his shoulders, and starts walking toward the weight rack on the far side of the room.

I let out a shaky breath.

Pedal slower now. Heart rate dropping, but the heat in my blood isn’t going anywhere.

I could leave. Should leave. Go back upstairs, jerk off in the shower, pretend this never happened.

But I don’t.

I stay on the bike. Keep pedaling. Keep watching him in the mirror as he loads plates onto the barbell—controlled, methodical, every movement precise even when he’s exhausted.

And I wonder—quietly, dangerously—if he’s staying because he wants me to watch.

Because I’m not sure I can stop. Even after ten more minutes.

He’s moved to the free weights—flat bench, dumbbells in each hand. He lies back, plants his feet, and starts pressing—slow, controlled reps. Every push makes his chest flex under the soaked tank. Sweat trails down his temples, along his jaw, dripping onto the mat below. His breathing is audible now—sharp inhales, steady exhales that match the rhythm of the presses.

I can’t stop watching. I’m transfixed by every move.

In the mirror, our reflections are angled just right: him on the bench, me on the bike. He doesn’t look over, but I know he knows I’m here. The tension in the room is thick enough to taste—electric, heavy, like the air before a storm.

My cock is throbbing now, trapped against the bike seat. Every downstroke of the pedals grinds it harder, sends a jolt of unwanted pleasure up my spine. I grit my teeth, force my hips to stay still. This is torture. Self-inflicted. And I’m not stopping.

He finishes his set. Sits up slowly. Sets the dumbbells down with a soft clank. Wipes his face with the towel again—neck, chest, arms—then stands. Stretches. Arms overhead, back arching just enough to pull the tank tight across his abs, outlining every cut line. The sweat makes the fabric almost transparent in places. I can see the faint shadow of his nipples, the way his stomach contracts when he breathes.

Fuck.

I miss a pedal stroke. The bike wobbles. I catch myself, grip the handles tighter.

He turns.

Our eyes meet in the mirror again—this time he doesn’t look away.

He walks toward the water fountain passing within five feet of me. Close enough that I catch the scent of him: clean sweat, salt, the faint musk of whatever body wash he uses. My mouth goes dry.

He bends to drink. Throat working. Water spills over his chin, runs down his neck again. Fuck me. Why is he drinking from the fountain if he has his water bottle? It’s to torture me, I know it.

I’m breathing too hard now. Not from the bike. From him.

He straightens. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Turns fully toward me.

“You’re up late,” he says finally.

I slow the pedals. Stop. Legs trembling from the effort and from everything else.

“Couldn’t sleep.” I shrug, trying for casual. It comes out strained. “Figured I’d burn it off.”

He nods once. Steps closer—three feet, two, until he’s standing right beside the bike. Close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes.

“You’ve been off all night,” he says quietly. “Since soundcheck. Since…what I said.”