GFW - Wellness Center - Part 2

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I lingered in the Gym room longer than necessary, pretending to adjust my hoodie, pretending to stretch. My brain was stuck in a loop.

And most of all, what the hell kind of mistake was this? Eventually, I left the room and made my way to the front desk again. The receptionist had been replaced by another woman, older, mid-forties maybe, with a kind but authoritative look. Her name tag read Morgan.

“Hi,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Uh, sorry. Quick question.” “Of course,” she said, setting her tablet aside. “You must be Derek.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly, leaning on the counter. “So, no offense, but this place. It’s, uh, a women’s wellness center, right?”

She didn’t blink. “It’s a wellness studio that specializes in integrated health and tailored programs. Our client base does skew heavily female, yes.”

“Right,” I said, nodding, feeling the awkwardness mount. “So, how exactly did I get enrolled here?”

Morgan smiled patiently, but there was something calculating in her eyes, like she’d expected this question and already rehearsed the answer. “Your physician, Dr. Levin, referred you directly through our partnership portal. Your insurance approved the referral under a specialized care plan.

I blinked. “Best fit? But I’m” I paused. “I mean, I don’t think I need to be in a women’s program.”

She tapped something on her tablet. I exhaled, trying to decode her carefully polite words.

Morgan’s tone softened. “I understand how this feels. She didn’t say anything else, just smiled in that way that made it clear the conversation was over. I nodded slowly, stepped back, and walked toward the workout space like I wasn’t still spiraling inside. I was halfway through the hallway when I turned around again and headed back to the desk. I couldn’t shake it. The scent of citrus-infused yoga mats, the soft pop playlist playing overhead, and the fact that I hadn’t seen a single other guy anywhere.

“Look,” I said, returning to Morgan, who was now typing something calmly on her tablet. “Sorry to bug you again, but are you sure this isn’t a mix-up? Like, completely sure?”

Morgan looked up, her expression neutral but understanding. “If it would make you feel more comfortable,” she said gently, “you’re welcome to call Dr. Levin. Confirm everything directly. If there’s been a mistake, we’ll update the file right away.”

I blinked. “Wait, so, you think it might be a mistake?”

She gave the slightest shrug. “That’s for your doctor to clarify. If you’re feeling uncertain, it’s always best to speak with the person who authorized your care plan.”

I pulled out my phone on instinct and scrolled for Dr. Levin’s number, my thumb hesitating over the call button. Morgan had already gone back to her work, like the conversation was just a tiny hiccup in an otherwise smooth process. I stepped into the corner of the lobby, thumb hovering over the “Call” button. Something in me still wasn’t settling. Every minute I stood here, surrounded by soft voices, pastel mats. I dialed anyway. One ring. Two. Three.

“Dr. Levin’s office,” a tired voice finally answered someone I didn’t recognize.

“Hi. Uh, this is Derek Lansing. I’m trying to reach Dr. Levin. He referred me.

There was a pause, followed by a soft sigh. “Dr. Levin is off duty. He’s sleeping, actually. He was on call all night. Can I take a message?”

I clenched my jaw. “Yeah, just tell him I called. It’s kind of urgent. I think there’s been a mix-up.”

“Noted,” the woman replied, already distracted by something on her end. “He’ll get back to you.”

I stood there for another few seconds, unsure whether I felt frustrated or just boxed in. Morgan’s voice cut in again, cool and gentle. “Everything okay?”

I turned. “He’s not available. She gave a small, sympathetic nod. “Yeah, I get that,” I muttered. “But still, if I’m not supposed to be here ”

“You are,” she interrupted gently, but firmly. “Your file was sent directly from Dr. Levin’s office. Insurance has already cleared and paid for the initial program package, eighteen weeks of monitored care.”

My eyes narrowed. “Paid for?” She nodded. “Fully covered. There’s no refund or transfer option at this stage. That sounded permanent. Uncomfortably permanent.

“So what happens if I just leave?”

Morgan gave a small, neutral smile. “Nothing dramatic. You’re free to walk out the door. But you’d be walking away from fully funded care, medical oversight, and a recovery protocol designed around your needs.”

“Okay,” I said, slowly. “Guess I’ll stay. For now.”

“Perfect,” she said, like it had all gone exactly to plan. “Your intake trainer will be out shortly. You can head to Studio B just down the hallway, second door on the right.”

I gave a tight nod and walked toward the hallway, the envelope of nerves folding deeper into my chest. Whatever this place was, it was mine for the next eighteen weeks. Whether I wanted it or not.

I stared at the options tank with shorts, tank topStudio B looked like every boutique fitness class I’d ever scrolled past on Instagram: bright, serene, polished. The kind of place where everyone glowed instead of sweated. There were mirrored walls, minimalist equipment, and racks of pastel resistance bands that looked more like props than tools for actual exercise.

I didn’t have long to take it all in because a moment later, the studio door opened and in walked her.

“Derek?” she asked, voice soft but confident.

I turned, and my words caught for a beat. She was around my age, maybe a year or two younger, but carried herself with the kind of authority that made you straighten up. Her hair was pulled into a high, glossy ponytail, her fitted crop top and leggings somehow managing to look effortless. Gorgeous, sure. But there was also a calmness to her, like she’d already read everything about me just from my slouched stance.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “That’s me.”

“I’m Reva. I’ll be your intake trainer and lead for the next few weeks. We’ll ease into everything slowly. No pressure. Today’s just orientation and movement assessment.”

“Cool,” I said, trying not to stare too long. “So, do I just wear this?”

I gestured down at my hoodie and joggers, comfortable but definitely not made for whatever "movement assessment" meant.

Reva gave me an apologetic smile. “Actually, I was just going to ask Morgan for something from our gear locker. You’ll need to move freely for this part.”

She stepped out briefly and returned with Morgan, who was holding a folded stack of workout clothes.

I took one look and froze.

A lilac racerback tank top.

A pair of black high-waisted compression shorts. Tights are in a soft gray-blue. And, on the very bottom, something that looked suspiciously like a sleeveless gym dress.

I stared at the stack. Then at Morgan. Then back at the stack.

“Uh, these are all women’s clothes,” I said, blinking.

Morgan didn’t flinch. “They’re studio-issued. Soft-fit, low-resistance activewear. We don’t stock by gender, only by size and function. These are what we have in your measurements.”

My mouth opened, then closed.

Reva stepped in smoothly. “You don’t have to wear anything you’re uncomfortable in. But it’s important you’re able to move without overheating or restricting your posture. The tank and shorts combo is actually what most of our newer clients start with.”

I glanced at the pieces again. The material looked too light. The cuts were definitely designed with curves in mind. There wasn’t a single boxy edge or neutral color in sight.

“Do I, uh, get to choose?” I asked hesitantly.

Morgan nodded, placing the stack on a nearby bench. “Of course. Whatever you’re most comfortable in. Take your time.”

I stared at the options tank with shorts, tank with tights, gym dress, and couldn’t believe I was seriously considering any of them. This was ridiculous..

I stood there staring at the outfit like it might disappear if I waited long enough. Of the three options, the tank top and shorts felt like the least humiliating. The tank was fitted and smooth, more form-hugging than anything I’d ever worn. The shorts? Well, let’s just say they left very little to the imagination. High-waisted, snug, and barely mid-thigh.

Still, it was that, or walk out and prove to everyone that I couldn’t handle a little discomfort. I grabbed the tank and shorts, changed in the private stall, and caught my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t look like me.

The soft lilac tank clung to my frame, hugging my shoulders and chest. The shorts were snug but surprisingly stretchy. My legs looked longer somehow, the pale gray fabric hugging them like a second skin. The clothes didn’t scream feminine, not exactly, but they didn’t say guy either.

I nodded once and took the clothes, not trusting myself to say anything.

“Staff room,” Morgan said calmly from behind the desk before I could ask. “Down the back stairwell. First door on the right. It locks from the inside. You’ll have privacy.”

When I walked back into Studio B, all twelve women were already there, sitting or stretching quietly on yoga mats spaced out across the hardwood floor. A few glanced up. A couple did double-takes. One woman, brunette, maybe in her thirties, actually blinked twice and then looked away like she wasn’t sure if it was rude to stare.

I tried not to make eye contact. Just keep walking, act like I belong, sit down.

That’s when two of them broke off and came toward me.

The first was tall, athletic, with a sleek braid and confident stride. The second was shorter, bubbly, with big expressive eyes and glittery nail polish. I recognized their names from the class roster Reva had shown me earlier: Sara and Lili.

“Hey,” said Sara, crossing her arms with an amused grin. “You’re new.”

Lili giggled, leaning in slightly. “And brave.”

I gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I guess. I, uh, didn’t exactly know what I was signing up for.”

Sara arched a brow. “This is your first time at GFW?”

“Yeah, doctor sent me here. Recovery stuff.”

“Mm,” she said, glancing me up and down, but not in a mean way. “Looks like they set you up with the standard gear. That tank’s a rite of passage.”

“I thought I was getting gym clothes,” I muttered, adjusting the hem of my shorts.

“You did,” Lili said with a wink. “Just not the kind you were expecting.”

I chuckled, partly at the joke and partly out of sheer awkwardness. “I’m starting to realize that.”

Sara leaned in a little, her tone softer now. “It gets easier. The weirdness.

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

“You’ll be fine,” Lili added. “Reva’s good. And no one here’s going to bite.”

With that, they returned to their spots, leaving me standing alone near the back of the room, still tugging awkwardly at the edge of my shorts.

I sat down on my mat and exhaled slowly.

Twelve women. One guy in soft lavender workout gear. A trainer I couldn’t stop glancing at. And a class I was rapidly realizing had nothing to do with reps or weights.

“Alright, everyone,” Reva’s voice cut through the soft murmur of the room, calm but commanding. “Let’s start with a full-body warm-up. Take a spot on your mat. Feet hip-width apart. Deep breath in.”

Twelve women and one awkwardly overdressed guy all shifted into place.

I mirrored the others, standing tall or trying to. The lilac tank tugged across my chest with every breath, and the shorts, though surprisingly breathable, made me hyper-aware of my thighs and hips in a way I never usually thought about.

“Shoulders back, chin up,” Reva said, walking slowly between the mats. Think length. We’re not just warming up muscles, we’re waking up presence.”

She passed by me, offering a brief glance. Not judging, just noticing. “Derek, you’re doing fine. Just soften your knees a little. You’re locking them.”

I adjusted, my heart ticking faster. The way she said my name was gentle, assured felt too casual, too practiced. I wondered how many “first-timers” like me she had trained.

“Arms overhead,” she continued. “Now reach not with tension, but intention. Elbows soft. Wrists loose. Imagine your hands moving through water, not air.”

I lifted my arms. The motion pulled the tank up ever so slightly, exposing more of my midriff than I was ready for. I quickly tugged it down.

“You’re holding tension in your shoulders,” she said, now directly behind me. I tensed more.

Reva stepped closer. “Relax. Let me help.”

Her hands, cool, deliberate, landed gently on my shoulder blades. She guided them downward, pressing just enough to change my posture.

“There,” she said softly. “Let your chest open naturally. You’re leading with your neck, not your spine.”

I swallowed hard. Her touch hadn’t been invasive, not even particularly intimate. But something about it made me feel like I was made of glass. Like she could see the things I hadn’t admitted to myself.

We continued through more slow, flowing movements, neck rolls, spinal stretches, and hip circles. All gentle, all precise. Nothing that should’ve felt weird. But it did feel weird.

Because each movement asked something of me that I wasn’t used to giving.

Awareness of where my body curved, how it held weight, and how it moved through space.

At one point, we went into a posture Reva called the “Pelvic Grounder.” Knees apart, spine tall, hands resting lightly on thighs. I tried to mimic the others, but I felt off. Too stiff. Too self-conscious. I kept shifting, unsure of where to place my hands. My center.

Reva walked by again and knelt briefly beside me. “You’re overthinking it,” she said softly. “You’re not being graded. You’re just discovering.”

“Discovering what?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

She didn’t answer. She just smiled and said, “Keep breathing.”

And I did. But each breath left me more confused than the last.

The session wound down with some final stretches and deep breathing, followed by a round of polite clapping like we’d just completed a guided meditation instead of a fitness class. Everyone started rolling up their mats, chatting quietly as they filtered toward the lockers.

I stayed frozen on my mat for a second longer than I needed to, heart still thudding faintly from, well, everything, the posture corrections. The way Reva’s hands had gently adjusted me like I was a sculpture being shaped.

As I stood up and followed the others out, I scanned the hallway, looking for a sign, anything labeled Men or Unisex. Nothing. Just Locker Room with soft pink letters and a flower icon painted above the doorframe.

I hesitated. Reva appeared beside me, casual as if she’d been expecting the question before I even asked.

“There’s no men’s locker room,” she said gently, folding her arms. “This studio wasn’t originally designed for mixed enrollment.”

I blinked. “Okay, but where am I supposed to change?”

Reva smiled slightly, nodding toward the front desk. “You can ask Morgan. She’ll set you up.”

I walked over, shoes squeaking faintly on the floor, every muscle in my body suddenly aware of the clingy tank top and how short the shorts felt now that class was over. I leaned on the counter.

“Hey, uh,” I said low, “Reva said to talk to you. There’s no men’s locker room?”

Morgan didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “That’s correct. GFW wasn’t designed with male facilities, since the original client base was exclusively female. You’re one of the first enrolled under our integrated care program.”

“Right. So, where do I go to change? I mean, I can’t walk outside dressed like this.”

She gave a small nod. “We’ve made accommodations. You can use the staff room for privacy. It’s not large, but you’ll have space to change. Unfortunately, there’s no shower access there. The main wash area is connected to the women’s locker room.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “No big deal. I’ll shower at home.”

She handed me a keycard. “Back hallway. Third door on the left. Just lock it behind you when you’re done.”

I took the card and offered a tight nod. “Thanks.”

The staff room was plain and windowless, basically a storage room with a bench and a small mirror on the wall. I peeled off the tank and shorts, changed into my hoodie and joggers as fast as I could.

I looked at myself in the mirror before heading out. Same face. Same messy hair. Same body.

But nothing felt the same.

I couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was the clothes. Maybe it was Reva’s voice in my head. Maybe it was the posture work, or the way the women had looked at me, not with judgment, but with this quiet curiosity.

Whatever it was, I felt like I was leaving that building. I was halfway through crumpling the tank top and shorts into the laundry bin marked Used Studio Wear when I heard a voice behind me.

“Wait, don’t toss those.”

I turned to see Reva standing at the edge of the staff room doorway, arms lightly crossed, her tone as calm as ever but firmer than before.

“Sorry,” I said, straightening up. “I thought this was where,”

“That’s the general-use bin,” she explained, stepping closer. “Those pieces were issued to you directly. We wash client gear separately, with labeled care. Just leave it with us at the front desk.”

Before I could answer, Morgan appeared behind her like she’d been listening the whole time. “Don’t worry, Derek,” she said, already taking the folded clothes from my hand. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said, a little confused. “So, like, I get them back next time?”

“No,” Morgan said pleasantly. “You’ll need a fresh set tomorrow. It’s better hygiene, and we rotate garments for new clients during their integration period.”

“Integration period?” I repeated. Morgan didn’t flinch. “Your first 2 weeks' sessions. You’ll be provided one new set at a time. Proper fit, sanitized, always ready. We take that part seriously.”

“Right,” I muttered. “You guys really run this place like a machine.”

“We run it like a sanctuary,” Reva corrected with a faint smile. “One where consistency matters. Trust the rhythm. You’re already adjusting better than most.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I wanted to argue, maybe even joke, but the truth was, I’d followed every instruction. I hadn’t even meant to. It had just happened.

Morgan handed me a small black card with my name handwritten neatly across it. “Bring this to the desk tomorrow. Your next set will be ready by then.”

I took it, glancing at the front. GFW Care Issue, Week One Client Pass.

“Thanks,” I said again, slipping it into my hoodie pocket.

As I stepped out of the building and into the cool morning air, I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I was just standing there, wondering where I’d ended up.

But if I was being honest, there was one thing, one person that made this whole bizarre morning feel less like a mistake and more like something I might actually come back to.

Reva hadn’t just guided the class. She owned the space. Calm, confident, grounded. And when she spoke to me, adjusted me, corrected me, it didn’t feel like I was being taught. It felt like I was being seen. Not just as some random guy shoved into the wrong gym.

That was rare and kind of addictive. So yeah, maybe the tank top was tighter than anything I’d ever worn. Maybe the shorts made me feel like a mannequin in a fashion experiment. And maybe the whole setup was still a giant question mark hanging over my head.

But Reva? Reva made the whole thing worth showing up for again. Even if I didn’t have all the answers.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

And this time, maybe not just because the doctor said so.

When I got back home, the front door clicked shut behind me with a quiet finality that made the silence feel heavier than usual. I dropped my gym bag on the kitchen counter and kicked off my shoes just as my sister walked out of the bathroom, her bag slung over her shoulder, still towel-drying her hair.

She raised an eyebrow. “Back early. How was it?”

I hesitated, watching her pull her damp hair into a messy bun in the hallway mirror. She was dressed for class, jeans, hoodie, earbuds already hanging around her neck, but she still paused to wait for my answer.

“It was different,” I said carefully. She turned slightly, interested. “Good different or bad different?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

She nodded slowly, not pushing, but not dismissing it either. “Want me to call the doctor? Ask what exactly he signed you up for?” I didn’t mention the clothes. Or the looks. Or the lack of a men’s locker room.

She didn’t ask. And just like that, the moment passed. She grabbed an apple from the counter and her keys from the hook by the door. “Cool. I’ll check in with his office during lunch. You heading to the office today?”

“Yeah. Might as well. I already called in yesterday.”

“Okay,” she said, stepping into her sneakers. “Don’t forget your pills.”

I glanced toward the medicine tray on the table, four small capsules lined up neatly next to my keys and wallet. Vitamin D, iron, hormonal support, and whatever the mystery supplement was that Dr. Levin had called part of a “balancing protocol.”

I nodded. “Got it.” She gave a quick wave and slipped out the door.

I stood in the middle of the living room for a few quiet seconds after she left, staring at the gym card on the counter. GFW Wellness Studio. The handwritten “Week One” label suddenly felt like a promise, or maybe a warning. I took the pills, one at a time, and then went to shower. Then I grabbed my bag, slipped on a clean shirt, and headed out for the office. Trying not to think about how everything.