The next few days slid by in the kind of routine that should have felt ordinary but didn't. Mornings started with coffee that tasted too bitter, runs that ended with Mia peeling off layers in the living room like it was nothing, the damp tank hitting his chest again in memory every time he passed the couch. Alex kept telling himself it was just proximity. Two people under one roof, same habits since high school, same habit of needling each other until something gave. Nothing more.
But the needling kept landing harder.
Mia had hauled the old weight bench and the barbell set into the garage two summers back, when regionals still mattered enough to make her obsessive. The space stayed half junk, half gym, cold concrete underfoot, one fluorescent tube that buzzed and flickered like it was on its last legs, a cracked mirror leaning against the cinderblock wall that threw back distorted versions of whoever stood in front of it. She'd claimed the area years ago. Alex usually steered clear. Until Thursday at 4:30, when her text lit up his phone: Spot me. Don't be a pussy.
He walked in. She was already flat on the bench in black bike shorts that cut high across her thighs, loose gray tee knotted at the waist to bare a strip of tanned stomach. The shirt was ancient, worn thin from too many washes; sweat would make it cling and go half-see-through. She'd loaded plates she could manage, nothing insane, but the warm-up set left her arms shaking on the final rep.
"About time," she said, eyes on the ceiling, not him. "Thought you'd bail."
Alex moved to the head of the bench. "Spot or form lecture? Pick one."
She snorted. Gripped the bar. Started her working set, five reps, slow negatives, chest lifting under the tee with each press. On the fourth she arched her back deeper than strictly needed, power-lifting habit, but it pulled the fabric taut across her breasts. Nipples stood out sharp against the cotton, small peaks from the garage chill or from whatever current ran between them now.
He stood close. Hands ready above the bar. Close enough to catch her smell, fresh deodorant undercut by the warm, rising scent of clean sweat in the hollows under her arms. Her ponytail had loosened; stray dark strands plastered to the side of her neck.
"Lower," she grunted on the fifth. "Touch me if I fail."
He dropped his hands. Fingers brushed the backs of hers on the knurled steel, her skin fever-hot, slick. She drove through, locked out, racked the bar with a sharp clang that echoed off the concrete.
She sat up quick. Too quick. Faces inches apart. Her breath hit his mouth in short, hot bursts. Lips parted. Cheeks flushed dark. Sweat had soaked the tee's collar and run in a thin, shining line down between her breasts, disappearing under the knotted fabric.
"You're staring again," she said. Voice dropped lower than usual.
"Hard not to when you're basically flashing me."
She laughed, sharp, edged, but it cracked at the end. "Please. You couldn't handle me if I actually tried."
She didn't scoot back. Instead she swung a leg over the bench, straddling it so her inner thigh pressed firm against his knee. Heat poured through the thin lycra. He felt the small tremor in her quad from the set, the solid muscle underneath. Deliberate. No accident.
Alex held ground. "That a challenge?"
Her gaze dropped to the obvious ridge in his shorts, lingered, flicked back up. "Maybe."
She reached for the bar again. Lighter weight this time, higher reps. He spotted tighter, hands hovering. Each descent made her arch again, ass lifting a fraction off the bench. Bike shorts crept higher, exposing the soft crease where thigh met cheek, the faint pale line where tan gave way. On the eighth rep she stalled. He leaned in, palms closing around the bar just above her grip. Fingers brushed, hers hot, his steady.
She locked it out. Racked it. Sat up. Stayed straddling the bench. Knees against his thighs now. Close enough he could see sweat beaded on her upper lip, could count the quick rise and fall of her chest.
"You're hard," she said. Flat. No tease. Just fact.
"Yeah."
Long beat. Her eyes held his. Then she reached out, slow, deliberate, and palmed him through the fabric. Firm grip. No hesitation. Measuring length, thickness. Eight inches, heavy enough her fingers didn't quite close around.
"Not bad," she murmured. "For a loser."
Thumb traced the outline. Squeezed once. Alex's breath caught; hips jerked forward before he could stop them.
Her mouth curved, small and knowing. "You wanna keep acting like this is just spotting?"
He didn't speak. Caught her wrist, not rough, just enough to pin her hand there, and leaned down. Mouths met in the middle. First clash was all teeth and fight, tongues shoving like they still raced each other on the hill. Then it shifted, slower, deeper, wetter. Her free hand shoved under his shirt, nails dragging light trails across his stomach, raising goosebumps.
She broke away first. Breath ragged. "Laundry room. Now."
She stood. Yanked him up. The door to the house was ten steps across the garage. Felt longer. Her ass flexed ahead of him with each stride, shorts ridden high enough to bare half a cheek. She didn't tug them down.
Inside she kicked the door shut. Heel against wood, sharp thud. Narrow space: washer-dryer side by side, shelves of detergent overhead, air thick with fabric softener and the metallic warmth of running appliances. She spun, backed him against the washing machine. Fingers already at his drawstring, yanking.
His cock sprang free, heavy, flushed dark, head glossy with pre-cum. Mia's eyes widened for a split second before the mask clicked back.
"Not bad," she said again. Softer. Almost reverent. "Really not bad."
She dropped to her knees on the cold concrete. No pause. Lips closed around the head, tongue circling slow, deliberate. Salty sweat from the garage lingered on her skin; he tasted it when she dragged kisses up the shaft before sliding him deeper. Cheeks hollowed. One hand cupped his balls, gentle rolls, thumb pressing the sensitive skin behind, while the other stroked the base her mouth couldn't reach.
Alex gripped the machine edge. Metal groaned under his fingers. "Fuck, Mia, "
She pulled off with a slick pop. Saliva strings stretched between her lips and the glistening head. "Don't talk. Just lose."
Her own breathing was wrecked. Shorts soaked at the crotch, dark patch spreading, not just sweat. She stood. Turned. Bent over the dryer. Thumbs hooked the waistband, dragged the shorts down just far enough. No underwear. Her slit gleamed, pink, swollen, lips puffy and slick, inner folds parting slightly as she shifted.
He stepped in. Rubbed the head along her once, twice, slow drag through wet heat. She hissed. Pushed back hard.
"Stop teasing."
He sank in slow. Tight, athletic walls gripping like she meant to hold him forever. Inch by inch until his hips pressed flush to her ass. She moaned low, broken sound, forehead thumping the dryer lid.
"Harder."
Hands on her hips. Thumbs dug into the firm dip above her glutes. Thrust deep. Her abs flexed visible under the tee when she braced and shoved back to meet him. Breasts shifted; he reached around, palmed one through cotton, full, firm, nipple like a hard pebble against his palm. Pinched once. She gasped sharp; inner walls fluttered, clenched.
Rhythm built, hard, steady. Dryer rocked faintly under them, metal creaking in time. Her ponytail unraveled more; strands clung to her damp neck. Sweat traced her spine, collected in the small hollow at her lower back.
She came first. Whole body shuddered. Choked "Fuck you, " slipped out before she bit her lip hard to stifle the rest. Pussy pulsed around him, rhythmic, milking, dragging him deeper. Alex followed seconds later, hips slamming forward, burying fully, spilling in thick, hot pulses that left his vision spotting.
They stayed joined. Breathing loud in the small room. Machine hummed beneath them, vibrations faint against skin.
She straightened slow. Turned. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Eyes still sharp, challenging.
"Rematch tomorrow," she said. "This time I win."
Alex tucked himself away. Heart still slamming ribs. "We'll see."
She smirked. Pulled shorts up, no wipe at the slow trickle down her inner thigh.
"Count on it."
She walked out first. Left the door open.
Alex stayed leaned against the dryer another minute. Breath steadying. Stared at the empty doorway. The house beyond it quiet, familiar.