Distance Made Him Mine

First Gym Video

I must have replayed that fifteen-second clip at least twenty times before I stepped back out into the restaurant.

Three hundred and fifty pounds. Dropped with a thunderous, metallic crash that seemed to reverberate through my chest long after the screen went black. And those two words at the end, delivered in that raspy, sweat-dampened growl: For you.

I sat down at the table, my hands trembling slightly as I picked up my wine glass. My friends were still debating dessert, but my mind was completely trapped in that private gym room thousands of miles away.

"Earth to Ava," Sarah said, waving a manicured hand in front of my face with a smirk. "You've been staring into space for five minutes. Did your mystery man text you again?"

"Something like that," I murmured, taking a long sip of my Pinot Noir to cool the sudden, stubborn heat blazing under my collarbone.

"Show us!" Mia demanded, leaning over the table. "You’ve been secretive about him all night. Come on, give us a name at least."

"No," I said instantly, pulling my phone closer to my chest like a guarded treasure. "He's... a work in progress."

A work in progress. The lie tasted sweet and dangerous on my tongue. He wasn't a work in progress—he was a force of nature accelerating at a terrifying speed, completely fueled by my existence.

By Sunday night, the quiet in my apartment felt entirely too loud.

I was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a plush throw blanket with my laptop resting on my thighs, trying to finish a project proposal. But the silence stretched, heavy and expectant.

My phone rested face down on the coffee table.

It was 8:00 PM for me, which meant it was mid-afternoon for him. Normally, my screen would be lighting up every twenty minutes with his sharp banter, dark observations, or relentless check-ins. But today, he had been strangely quiet for hours.

I tried to focus on my screen, typing out a sentence, deleting it, and typing it again.

Don't text him first, my pride warned. Let him chase.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

With a soft sigh of defeat, I snapped my laptop shut, set it aside, and reached for the phone.

** Me:** Did you pass out under a bench press, or did you finally decide to act like a normal human being and take a rest day?

I set the phone back down, resting my chin in my hands. The silence stretched again. One minute. Three minutes.

Then, the device vibrated with a long, heavy hum that made the glass top of the coffee table rattle.

Not a text. A video file.

My heart did an embarrassing, violent thud against my ribs. I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over the thumbnail before I pressed play.

The video opened with a low, ambient rumble. He was in a high-end, private training facility—the kind with matte-black equipment, low ambient lighting, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The camera was set up on a low tripod, angled upward, giving a sharp, panoramic view of the room.

And then he walked into the frame.

My breath caught straight in my throat, my lungs seizing up entirely.

He wasn't wearing a loose shirt this time. He was wearing black compression tights and a pitch-black, sleeveless muscle tank that left nothing to the imagination. The transformation over the last few weeks was absurd—his broad shoulders flared wide, his back tapering down into a narrow waist, his biceps heavily veined and flushed red from blood flow. Sweat glistened along the column of his neck, dripping down the center of his chest, soaking the front of his tank.

He picked up two massive fifty-pound dumbbells from the rack, his knuckles turning white around the steel handles. He walked directly toward the camera, his dark gaze locked onto the lens as if he could see straight through to the girl sitting on a couch on the other side of the world.

He didn't say a word. He stood right in front of the lens, chest heaving, his jaw set in a hard, brutal line.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised the dumbbells into a strict shoulder press.

One rep. Veins flared along his neck, his collarbones straining under smooth skin.

Two reps. His muscles flexed, dark and defined under the harsh overhead lighting, his breathing coming out in low, rhythmic grunts.

Three. Four. Five.

He didn't break eye contact with the camera once. It was hypnotic. Savage. A silent, physical demonstration of pure, unadulterated strength, meant for an audience of exactly one.

On the eighth rep, he paused at the top, holding the heavy steel locked above his head, his frame shaking slightly under the immense strain. Sweat dripped off his jawline, falling directly onto the floor near the tripod.

Then, with a controlled exhale, he lowered the weights slowly and set them down on the rubber mat with a dull, heavy thud.

He bent over, resting his hands on his knees for a second, his back rippling as he dragged air back into his lungs.

When he stood up, he stepped so close to the camera that his broad chest filled the entire frame. He reached out, his thick, sweat-dampened fingers gripping the edges of the phone case.

He leaned down, his face inches from the lens. Dark hair stuck to his forehead, his dark eyes burning with an intense, territorial hunger that made my knees feel weak even sitting down.

"I told you I don't take rest days when I have something to prove," his voice rasped out—rough, deep, and heavy with exhaustion.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a slow, dark smirk that sent an electric shiver straight down my spine to my toes.

"Caption this one 'for you,' baby. Because every single drop of sweat on this floor belongs to you."

The video cut out.

The screen snapped to black.

I sat completely frozen on my couch, my breathing shallow, my hands clutching the phone so hard my knuckles were turning pale. The air in my living room felt thick, suffocating, entirely charged with his presence.

Before my racing heart could even slow down, my phone chimed again.

A text from him.

** Him:** Did you like your gym video, or do I need to film another set?

My fingers flew across the keyboard, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.

** Me:** You're a show-off.

** Him:** Only for you. Now answer the question.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, staring at the glowing blue bubble before typing back six words that sealed my fate completely.

** Me:** I replayed it five times already.

The reply came back in less than three seconds, short, possessive, and dangerous.

** Him:** Good girl. Keep watching. I'm just getting started.