Hard Damage

The air in the gym smells like metal and sweat, like ambition grinding itself raw. Nobody admits to having it. I like that. Keeps the noise in my head from getting too loud.

Before I go in, I smoke against the brick outside, backpack between my boots.

Prenzlauer Berg has this weird talent for making old shit look expensive. Stone façades, black-framed windows, bikes chained to anything that doesn’t move. Slap enough fresh paint around graffiti and suddenly it becomes character for twenty-five hundred a month. Berlin loves damage if the lighting’s good.

I check the time. 7:38.

Twelve hours since I opened my laptop. Most of them spent inside an authentication service written by three different developers who apparently hated each other and documentation equally. Communicated exclusively through spite.

One bug became two stale tokens, a permissions issue nobody had noticed in staging, and a Slack message from my manager asking if I could “take a quick look.”

Quick look. Sure.

Complained the entire time, obviously. Still fixed it.

I light up and take the first drag deep.

Fixes absolutely nothing.

Feels like it does—a controlled burn to cauterize the day’s work. Scrubbing backdoors I found in a fintech’s legacy code leaves a residue on the brain.

Some guys at the gym act like smoking while training five days a week is some fascinating contradiction. It’s not. I know what it does.

I spend enough of my life fixing shit. I’m allowed to keep one bad decision running in production.

It’s also useful.

A guy walking past the gym slows down half a step. I let the smoke out slowly and watch him keep walking. Usually, it makes me look like trouble.

Fine by me.

At this point it’s a ritual I’ve perfected: one last drag of something that ruins me before I go inside to build myself back up.

I finish it almost to the filter, drop the butt into the street bin, then push through the doors.

The guy at reception barely looks up.

Berlin understands that part.

People here know how to leave you the hell alone. They lower their voices, wait their turn, keep three feet of invisible territory around themselves like somebody measured it out at birth.

New York’s different. Somebody will tell you to go fuck yourself before breakfast and hold the door for you thirty seconds later because you’ve got coffee in your hands.

I miss that sometimes.

Berliners are direct too. They’ll call you an asshole like they’re confirming the platform number, then move on before you get your turn.

That pisses me off.

I know where I stand with a knife when I can see the damn thing.

Inside, the mirrors catch every light like camera flashes. Techno pounds overhead. Just enough bass to get into your chest. A girl by the treadmills has her phone up, livestreaming herself. Talking to the screen between sets. Fifteen people online need to know she’s doing cardio.

Three guys are huddled nearby, joking and finding reasons to flex whenever she looks their way. One of them curls too much weight. He throws his body at the dumbbells, hoping confidence does the work for him.

They move like they own the girl’s gaze, but it’s the only thing they’ll ever own. I watch anyway. The shoulder that dips, the sloppy rhythm of their pulls, mistaking her camera for NBA scouts.

Amateur hour.

I don’t need to join. Three guys showing off for one girl. Terrible odds.

I’m above that.

I catch myself in the mirror on the way past the free weights. Blond curls damp from outside, beard cleaned up this morning, black shirt fitting tighter across the shoulders than it did last month.

I turn slightly as I walk. Not enough to call it checking myself out.

Green eyes look mean under these lights. People tend to mistake that for me knowing something they don’t.

Sometimes they’re right. Mostly I let them wonder.

Then I see him. New guy.

I slow down.

Mid-twenties, probably. Lean, maybe seventy-five kilos if I’m being generous, with long arms and a waist narrow enough to make the difference between us obvious before I even get close. Lighter than me by a lot.

Yeah. That works.

I like that immediately. Put him beside me and I’d make him look smaller than he actually is.

He’s stuck in an ISO play with a weight he can’t handle. Head down, forcing it, zero court vision. The kind of guy who gets trapped at the baseline and decides the solution is to drive harder.

Except this isn’t basketball. The defender is his own shoulder joint, and that thing’s going to win.

He pulls again. Cable jerks. Jesus. I watch one more rep because apparently I enjoy suffering.

Nope.

I head over. Apparently I’m coaching tonight.

I’m not sure if he speaks English, but maybe I can scrape together some German.

Du machst es kompliziert.

Something like that. Just to introduce myself and then show him a simpler, better way to lean into the cables.

My German’s good for groceries, train announcements, and telling a delivery driver which floor I live on. Shoes off. Shower before you get in my bed. That too. That’s about it.

Fuck it. English first.

I stop behind him.

“You’re leaking power,” I say.

He looks at me through the mirror. Dark hair hanging slightly over his forehead.

“Your wrists are doing half the work,” I say. “Drop the weight.”

No please. No soft landing. He’ll live.

He doesn’t drop it. Instead his shoulders tighten. There’s always one. He isn’t listening.

I step closer and point at the handle. “Here. Keep this straight.”

This time I look him dead in the eyes.

Let’s see him ignore me now.

He adjusts his grip without looking at me. Wrong again.

I reach toward his hand, mostly to fix the angle, and his whole body goes tight.

“I’m fine.”

English. Huh. Accent, but good English.

And no, he’s not fine.

“Your mechanics are trash,” I say.

He turns. Okay. That’s a face. Pale skin flushed from the set. Tired-looking eyes that suddenly aren’t tired at all. Brown—or maybe hazel under these lights.

Either way, they’re pissed.

Better-looking up close, too. That’s inconvenient.

Lean jaw. Mouth fuller than I expected.

I reach again.

“Finger weg.”

I stop.

Oh, fuck you. I was fixing your wrist, pretty boy. Calm down. “Fine.”

I put both hands up. “No touching.”

He turns back around before I’ve even finished. That’s it.

Dismissed.

Me.

My jaw locks.

Cute. Now I’m interested.

I stay there and watch him grab the handle again.

Forearms tense. Veins standing out. He’s got good hands. Long fingers. Strong grip.

I’ll give him that.

He’s embarrassed. That’s what this is. Has to be. I caught him doing something wrong. Now he’s defensive. Sure. I’m the problem.

That sounds better. Whatever helps him sleep.

Still doing the exercise wrong. Shame.

“Lower the pin,” I say.

Nothing.

“Seriously. You’re gonna fuck up your elbows.”

He exhales through his nose. Still doesn’t look at me.

I reach toward the weight stack, then stop myself before touching anything.

Right. Apparently we’re negotiating international borders now.

I point. “Two plates down.”

He looks at the stack. Then at me. Then back at the stack. And lowers it.

There we go.

I don’t smile. Almost. “Now sit back.”

He does.

“Chest up.”

His shirt rides up when he moves. Half an inch of pale stomach.

Yeah.

Definitely like that.

His eyes cut toward me in the mirror. “What?”

“You’re doing it wrong in front of me.”

His mouth tightens.

There’s something there. Temper. Maybe nerves underneath it. Hard to tell. I like figuring people out. Especially when they don’t want me to.

Most guys get grateful when you correct them. He looks like he’d rather make a bad decision on purpose than let me be right.

I know the type.

“Pull,” I say.

He pulls. Better.

“Again.”

Second rep. Cleaner. His back tightens under the shirt this time, shoulder blades pulling where they’re supposed to. Waist stays still.

Much better.

I watch longer than the rep requires. There’s a small tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Black ink. I can’t make out what it is from here. I want to. Whatever.

“There.” I fold my arms. “See?”

He releases the cable slowly this time. “Yes.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t thank you.”

I look at him. He looks right back.

There’s still color high on his cheeks.

Still pissed. Still here.

Oh. Okay. Maybe tonight won’t suck.

The cable hangs loose between his knees. He’s sitting, and I’m still taller than him by enough to make the difference obvious.

The mirror makes it worse.

Me behind him. Broad shoulders. Him narrower in front, jaw set like he wants to prove that none of that matters.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Still.

“You always this friendly?” he asks.

“Only when someone’s about to injure themselves.”

“I wasn’t.”

“That was painful to watch.”

He turns on the bench to face me properly. One knee shifts between us. “You work here?”

“No.”

“You could’ve kept walking.”

He watches me like he’s trying to decide if I’m an asshole or a problem.

Fair question.

“Name?” I ask.

He blinks.“That’s not an answer.”

I laugh once. He looks surprised by it.

I am getting annoyed. A little. But he’s still looking at me. That helps.

“Landon,” I say.

He glances at my hand when I offer it, then back at my face.

Christ. Everything’s a negotiation with this guy.

For a second, I think he’s going to leave me there.

I’m not pulling back first.

Then he takes it.

His hand is smaller than mine. Warm from training. His grip is firmer than I expected.

My thumb settles against the side of his hand and I become very aware that I could close mine around most of his without trying.

I don’t.

He looks at me.

I keep holding.

So does he.

“Trash,” he says.

My brow pulls in. “What?”

“My form.”

Oh. We’re still doing that.

“You came over here and insulted it.”

“It was trash.”

For the first time, he smiles.

It changes his face more than it should. Takes some of the hardness out of the eyes. Makes him look younger.

Makes the mouth worse.

For me, anyway. Great. Now he’s got a nice smile too.

I glance at the mirror. His hand is still in mine. So is mine around his. Neither of us seems in a hurry to fix that.

“Elias,” he says.

It fits him—short, clean, almost too innocent for that attitude.

I look down at him. “Eli.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Elias.”

I almost grin. “Eli.”

This time he actually does smile. Irritated.

I let his hand go. Eventually.

“Eli,” I say again.

He shakes his head once, but he doesn’t correct me this time.

I’m about to ask if he wants a cigarette when movement cuts through the edge of my vision.

Jens.

“Landon! Back at it?”

Three days of fever and this asshole says it like I took a vacation.

“Unfortunately.”

I look over.

Blond. Stocky. Gym polo stretched across his chest. He’s a trainer here. Competent. Boring enough that I only talk to him when the alternative is listening to somebody explain crypto.

“Still smoking before you lift?”

He nods toward my bag, where the cigarette pack is visible through the mesh pocket.

“Keeps the lungs honest.”

Jens laughs because he always laughs at that one.

We’ve hung out a few times when I’ve been bored enough. He’s good company because he doesn’t require maintenance. Beer, sports, bullshit. Done.

He’s saying something about my shoulders when I look past him.

At the back of Eli’s neck. The new guy is staring at his own reflection now, trying to process the intrusion.

“You giving free coaching now?” Jens asks.

“Somebody had to.”

Elias gets up from the machine.

He doesn’t look at me when he does it. Just wipes down the handle, puts the towel back over his shoulder, and moves a few stations away.

Didn’t leave. Interesting.

He’s adjusting the seat now, pretending the numbers require his full attention.

Sure.

Jens follows my eyes. “Looks like you made a friend.”

“Working on it.”

That gets another laugh out of him.

“Never seen him before,” Jens says.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You work fast.”

Jens looks at me.

“Aggressively,” I say.

That shut him up.

There’s an open machine beside Eli.

Perfect.

“You hitting legs?” Jens asks.

“Tomorrow.”

“You always split like that?”

I look at him. “Maybe.”

Jens grins, confused. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” I glance past him at Eli. Still there.

Jens doesn’t move.

Jesus.

“Uh—there was some girl asking for you back there.”

His brow pulls together. “What girl?”

Fuck.

“Blonde.”

“Half the women here are blonde.”

“Then your odds are fantastic.”

I clap him once on the shoulder and start walking before he can ask for a name.

“Landon—”

“You’re welcome.”

I don’t look back.

Jens mutters something in German and heads toward the squat racks.

One problem removed. Back to the important one. I take the plate-loaded row beside Eli.

He notices.

“If he bores you, you tell me.”

His eyes find mine in the mirror. “Who?”

I jerk my chin toward Jens. “Him.”

“He seems nice.”

“Exactly.”

Eli looks at me like he’s waiting for the rest.

“I’m serious. He starts talking macros, come find me.”

“And you’ll save me?”

Well. Look at him. I load the weight. “Obviously.”

“Very American.”

“New Yorker.”

“Mhm. Mhm.”

He gives me a slow nod like I’ve just confirmed something for him.

I crack my knuckles. “What?”

“Forget it.”

Sure. I’ll do exactly that.

“What’s wrong with nice?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I load the second plate. “Just don’t encourage him.”

Eli turns toward me. “Why?”

I look at him. “Because I’m already talking to you.”

A second passes.

“Is that how it works?”

“For you, Eli.”

His mouth twitches.

I’ll take it.

First pull. Slow.

Eli glances over. Then away. Now we’re speaking the same language.

I rack it and slide another plate on. Don’t need it. Add it anyway. He checks again.

Yeah, boy. Watch.

My shoulders are already blown up from the first sets. Forearms veined around the handle. I don’t need to throw the weight around like those idiots by the dumbbells. Control looks better.

Always has.

I finish the set and let the cable down without a crash.

Eli suddenly finds the display fascinating. Adorable.

I stand and stretch one arm across my chest. Shirt pulls up at my waist.

His eyes drop. Jesus. I’d watch too.

I grab my water.

“Better?” I ask.

He looks at me. “What?”

“Your form.”

“Oh.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes.”

“Good.”

That’s all he gets.

I move on. Far side of the gym. Finish shoulders, some core, twenty minutes on the rower. Nothing stupid with the ankle. Learned that lesson once.

Don’t need the sequel.

By the last set, work is finally gone from my head. No idiots asking whether something can be done by Friday when what they mean is we already promised Friday.

When I’m done, I grab my bag and head toward the doors.

Eli’s still here.

He’s wiping down the cable machine, bent slightly forward. Shirt stuck between his shoulder blades.

I slow down.

He straightens as I pass.

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

I drop my bag beside him.

Neither of us says anything.

I reach into the mesh pocket and pull out my cigarettes.

His eyes follow my hand. Better he knows now. Some guys hate it. Some pretend they don’t until they smell it on you. Some like it more than they should.

I don’t do surprises. Well. Not that kind. I tap the pack once against my palm and keep walking. At the glass doors, I look back.

He’s watching me.

I hold his eyes for a second and put a cigarette between my lips.

His gaze drops to my mouth.

If it turns him on, he will think about me later. In the shower, water hitting his back. In his bed, staring at the ceiling. He’ll replay the sound of my voice and the sight of my hands on the metal. Maybe that stupid argument about his form. Maybe the way I said his name.

People remember irritation. Attraction too. Mix the two and good luck getting rid of somebody.

I push the door open but don’t go through immediately.

Maybe he comes outside. Maybe he doesn’t. I’m not standing here holding the fucking door like we’re on a date.

I step out.

Either way, he’ll think about whether he should’ve. That’s usually enough to get somebody the second time.

So that’s Eli. Elias. Whatever.

Good arms. Better mouth. Attitude problem.

I can work with that.