The Weight of Things (Commission)

The gym smelled like rubber mats, disinfectant spray, and faint sweat. Julián wasn’t the kind of guy who loved gyms, but since settling into the new city, he figured it was worth a try. Maybe routine would help him feel less like an outsider.

He walked slowly between the rows of machines, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. That’s when he spotted her.

Camille.

Pink gym shorts, violet top, gloves strapped tightly around her hands, and no shoes. Her bare feet rested on the footplate of the chest press machine, soft, pale, lifeless in contrast to the intensity in her eyes. She wasn’t moving, just scanning the room as if hunting for someone. Then she caught sight of him.

Her face lit up with a flicker of recognition and something else, mischief.

Her fingers, bent and imperfect, shifted against the handles. With a half-awkward, half-confident gesture, she waved him over.

Julián hesitated, then crossed the floor.

“Hey,” she said when he got close enough. Her tone was casual, but her eyes pinned him in place. “Do me a favor?”

He glanced at the machine, then back at her. “What kind of favor are we talking about?”

Camille rolled her eyes. “Relax, rookie. Just gym stuff. My PT ditched me about ten minutes ago, probably hitting on some hot non-disabled chick by the water cooler. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here halfway through my set.”

There was a sharp bite in her words, but also a kind of playful drama that made Julián smile despite himself.

“So… how can I help?” he asked.

She tilted her chin toward the machine. “My grip’s crap, even with these gloves. I can hold on for a while, but if I want to push heavy, I need someone to keep my hands steady. You think you can handle that?”

Julián nodded slowly. “So basically… I hold your hands in place?”

“And,” she added with a raised brow, “when I start pushing, you give me a little extra force. Not much. Just enough so I don’t stall out halfway. Got it?”

He stepped closer, standing over her, uncertain but willing. Her gloved hands looked fragile wrapped around the handles, her wrists trembling slightly with the effort of keeping them straight. He carefully placed his own over hers, adjusting her grip so her knuckles aligned with the bar.

“Like this?” he asked.

Camille smirked. “Not bad for a first-timer.”

Then she inhaled, braced her shoulders, and pressed. Her arms strained, the machine creaked, and Julián instinctively added a steadying push, guiding her through the motion. Their hands moved together, her body tense, his steady.

When the handles clicked back into place, she exhaled sharply, hair falling into her face.

“See?” she said between breaths. “Told you I had the upper hand.”

He chuckled, still hovering close, feeling the warmth of her effort through his palms.

“I think you just like bossing me around,” Julián said.

Camille tilted her head, that same mischievous smile spreading. “And you came over, didn’t you?”

“Alright,” she said, breath still uneven, “last set. Don’t go easy on me.”

Julián tightened his hands over hers again, steadying her fingers on the bars. “I wasn’t planning to.”

She gave a quick grin, then pushed. Her arms trembled almost immediately, the weight resisting, her wrists threatening to fold. Julián leaned in, guiding her through the motion, his strength covering the gaps where hers faltered. Her breaths came sharp and fast, but her eyes never broke focus. She pushed until the machine clanked back into place.

“Done,” she exhaled, tilting her head back, a sheen of sweat at her hairline. “See? Not bad, huh?”

Julián let go gently, stepping back. “Not bad,” he agreed. Then, after a pause, he added, “Hey, I should probably apologize.”

Camille raised a brow, half amused, half suspicious. “For what? My form? Because I know it’s not perfect, save the lecture.”

He shook his head. “No… for not asking for your number back at the club. I should have.”

For a moment, Camille just blinked at him, then laughed. A low, throaty sound that made the corners of her eyes crinkle.
“Don’t sweat it,” she said. “I get it. I kind of left you stunned, didn’t I?”

Julián smiled, sheepish. “Something like that.”

Her gaze softened but didn’t lose its edge. “Yeah. Happens more often than you’d think.”

He took a breath, met her eyes. “Well… I’m asking now. Can I have your number?”

Camille’s lips curled into that sly, tilted smile he remembered from the club. She let the silence stretch for a beat, then tapped a finger against the machine’s armrest.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Julián tilted his head. “A deal?”

“You want my number? You earn it.” Her eyes glittered as she leaned forward. “Help me get back in my chair without dropping me. Do that, and I’ll give it to you.”

He blinked, caught between nerves and a laugh. “That’s the trade?”

“Yep,” Camille said, smirking. “No drops, no excuses. Think you’re up for it, rookie?”