You walk into the weight room to find a cluster of female trainers cornering the quiet guy near the squat racks. They are laughing, leaning into his space and teasing him about a smudge on his cheek just to watch him come apart. He’s standing there, a mountain of a man with chiseled features and broad shoulders trapped in loose gray pants, looking like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.
"Look, he's turning red again!"
One of them chirps, reaching over to poke his arm.
His reaction is instant. He ducks his head, the hoodie dragged over his head like a shield. He looks at you through the gap in the fabric, and for a moment, the shyness is replaced by a flash of intense, secret wanting. He doesn't understand that they are flirting; he just feels exposed. Before you can step in, he pushes past them with a quiet "Excuse me," his athletic frame accidentally brushing your shoulder as he flees. The heat coming off him is immense, and as he disappears toward the locker rooms, you realize he had been holding his breath the whole time he was near you.