Archive of Our Own ^beta

Keith hated mirrors.

Unfortunately, the gym had plenty.

They lined the walls—big, gleaming, impossible to ignore. And every time Keith moved, his reflection stared back at him: thick thighs, wide hips, a stomach that hung over his waistband when he slouched. His shirt clung in all the wrong places. He yanked it down again, jaw tight.

Shiro handed him a towel and a bottle of water. “That was your best set yet,” he said, smiling. “You’re getting stronger.”

Keith grunted and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, but I’m still fat.”

Shiro sighed. “You’re working on it. And you’re showing up. That’s the hard part.”

Keith didn’t answer. He just focused on catching his breath while his legs trembled from the squats.

Shiro knew better than to push when Keith got quiet, so he walked over to reset the timer. Keith leaned against the wall, eyes flicking toward the glass-panelled yoga studio across the floor. The lights were dim, the atmosphere calm—like it was sealed off from the world. No clanging weights, no strained grunts. Just breath and movement.

At the front of the class stood a tall, lean figure. Curls clipped back with cute clips. Brown skin catching the soft studio lights like honey in the sun. And that voice—Keith couldn’t hear it clearly from here, but it was smooth, almost melodic, rising and falling with each instruction.

The guy flowed from pose to pose like he was made of silk and wind. He was the opposite of Keith in every way. Graceful. Confident. Slim. Comfortable in his own skin.

Keith watched for longer than he meant to.

“Who’s that?” he asked suddenly, voice rougher than intended.

Shiro glanced up from his clipboard and followed Keith’s gaze.

“Oh,” he said, then smirked. “That’s Lance.”

Keith looked away, like he’d been caught. “He works here?”

“Yeah. Yoga instructor. Certified, flexible as hell, and popular with basically every member over fifty.”

Keith snorted despite himself. “Why?”

“He brings snacks on Saturdays.”

That made Keith actually laugh—a small, surprised sound. “Seriously?”

“Granola bites. Homemade. The man’s dangerous.”

Keith looked over again. Lance was adjusting someone’s posture now—gently placing a hand on their shoulder, coaxing them into a deeper stretch with a laugh. His whole presence was easy, bright, magnetic.

“…He’s good at it,” Keith said quietly.

Shiro nodded. “One of the best. He works his ass off to make it look effortless.”

Keith hesitated. “Do you think—”

Shiro raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I mean, would he even let someone like me into his class?” Keith asked, voice low. “I’m not… bendy.”

Shiro’s expression softened. “Keith. He’d love to have you. He doesn’t care what you look like. He cares that you show up.”

Keith crossed his arms. “What if I can’t do the poses?”

“Then you modify. Or you sit and breathe. It’s not about nailing the splits on day one. It’s about being present. That’s what Lance teaches.”

Keith didn’t answer right away.

Across the room, Lance moved into a standing pose—arms stretched overhead, spine long and proud. Then he looked up… and caught Keith watching.

Their eyes met for a second.

Keith immediately turned away, ears burning.

Shiro chuckled. “I’ll tell him you’re interested.”

“No,” Keith said quickly. “Don’t—”

“Too late.”

“Shiro!”

“Relax. He’s cool.”

Keith huffed and grabbed his water bottle again. “You’re evil.”

“I’m motivating.”

“…I hate you.”

But even as Keith grumbled, his eyes wandered back to the yoga studio—just for a moment.

And Lance was still smiling.

********************************************

Keith's muscles ached in a way that felt almost good. Not comfortable, not by any means—but earned. His hoodie clung to his back from sweat, and his breath came in short bursts, but the burn in his thighs and arms reminded him that he’d pushed himself. That maybe—just maybe—something was changing.

He tossed his towel into the laundry bin and grabbed his water bottle, slumping down on the bench near the back wall. Shiro had left to grab their session logs, promising Keith a smoothie if he stayed still and didn’t try to sneak in another set. Keith had only rolled his eyes.

The gym was busy that afternoon, humming with energy. The clanging of metal weights, the soft thud of feet on treadmills, the occasional buzz of conversation.

And, just across the gym, in the studio behind the glass wall—Lance.

Keith saw him immediately.

He always did.

Lance stood barefoot at the front of the studio, laughing as he helped someone adjust their mat. His curls were pushed back with a cute hello kitty headband, a few strands bouncing free near his temple. His tank top hung loose, exposing smooth shoulders and the sharp dip of his collarbone. He was glowing—literally—his skin shining with a light sheen of sweat that made it look like he belonged in a music video, not a local gym.

Keith’s chest tightened. He had thought about approaching him for weeks now. Ever since that conversation with Shiro. Ever since Lance caught him watching and smiled like it wasn’t weird.

And maybe today was the day.

His session was done. His heart was already pounding. Maybe he could walk over, make some awkward joke about yoga being scary, say he was thinking about trying it again. Maybe Lance would laugh. Maybe Lance would say his name like it was something worth remembering.

Keith stood up.

One step.

Then another.

He made it halfway across the gym floor, nervous hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie—when someone else got there first.

A guy. Tall. Abs. Confidence dripping off him like cologne. His tank top was practically painted on, clinging to every sculpted line of his torso. Blond hair pulled into a lazy half-ponytail. Teeth too white to be natural. And he walked right up to Lance like they knew each other—like they belonged standing side by side.

Keith froze.

He watched as Lance looked up in surprise—then grinned. Not polite. Not the soft, professional smile he gave to every student. It was different. Playful. Familiar.

The tall guy said something. Lance laughed and leaned in, just slightly, his hand brushing the other guy’s arm as he responded. The way he tilted his head, the way his eyes shone—it made something in Keith’s stomach drop.

Then Lance said something that made the guy laugh, and Keith saw it—the touch. Quick. Casually possessive. The guy’s hand brushed Lance’s waist like it had done it a hundred times.

Keith turned away before he saw more.

He walked fast, almost tripping over a stray kettlebell near the stretching zone. His throat felt tight, stupidly tight, like he’d been punched somewhere soft and unguarded.

Of course.

Of course Lance would go for someone like that.

Fit. Gorgeous. Tall. Someone who looked like he belonged in Lance’s world. Someone who didn’t have to pull at their clothes to hide their belly, who didn’t sweat just from climbing stairs, who didn’t feel like a walking before-picture in a weight-loss ad.

Keith didn’t stop until he made it to the locker room. It was quieter there, empty except for the low hum of a shower running behind a stall.

He sat down heavily on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers locked tightly together.

He’d been so stupid to even think Lance might look at him that way.

Stupid to think he had a chance.

Stupid to hope.

The locker room echoed faintly with the sound of running water and buzzing lights. Keith sat slouched on the bench, shoulders hunched, his hoodie bunched awkwardly at the elbows like he’d started to take it off and changed his mind halfway through. His jaw was tight. His eyes locked on the floor.

He didn’t even look up when Shiro walked in.

“Hey,” Shiro said softly, not bothering to announce himself louder. “You disappeared on me.”

Keith didn’t answer.

Shiro sat down beside him without asking, the bench creaking faintly under their combined weight. He didn’t speak for a minute, just let the silence settle between them like gravity. He knew Keith well enough to know when not to push.

“You alright?” he asked gently.

Keith gave a little exhale. Not quite a sigh. More like he was deflating.

“…I’m fine.”

Shiro glanced at him. “Liar.”

Keith grimaced. “I just didn’t feel like sticking around. That’s all.”

“You usually stay for smoothies.”

Keith rubbed his palms against his thighs. “Not in the mood.”

Shiro followed his gaze—down, to the rubber flooring, to the lockers, anywhere but the yoga studio.

Then he spoke, careful and low. “You were on your way to talk to Lance, weren’t you?”

Keith stiffened.

Shiro continued, soft but steady, “I saw you walking toward him. And I saw you stop.”

Keith’s lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet and hollow.

“He was with someone.”

Shiro stayed silent.

Keith swallowed. “Some guy. Tall. Muscles. Like, actual muscles. The kind you can see. And he had a stupid perfect jaw and... abs. Like the ones you only see in magazines.”

Shiro waited.

“They were flirting. Or dating. Or something. I don’t know,” Keith muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not that it matters.”

“It matters if it hurt,” Shiro said quietly.

Keith shrugged, trying to make himself smaller. “I don’t even know him. I don’t even talk to him. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

Keith finally looked at him, frustration written across his face. “Shiro, look at me. I’m fat. I’m awkward. I’ve never been the guy someone like Lance would look at twice. Why would he ever want someone like me when he’s got abs-for-days Ken Doll over there?”

Shiro didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “First of all, Keith, you’re not ‘fat’ like it’s some kind of curse word. You’re a person. A person with a body that’s doing its best. A body that’s shown up here every damn day for weeks. A body that’s stronger now than it was when you started.”

Keith looked down again, guilt and shame burning beneath his skin.

“And second,” Shiro continued, voice gentler now, “you don’t know what Lance wants.”

“I know what guys like him usually want,” Keith said bitterly. “They don’t want people like me. They want the guy who can bench twice their weight and still look good in a crop top. Not someone who gets winded tying their shoes.”

Shiro let the weight of that sit for a moment.

Then: “You’re allowed to want things too, Keith.”

Keith’s head snapped up.

“You’re allowed to like someone. To hope. To feel disappointed when it doesn’t work out,” Shiro said. “But don’t make yourself small just because you’ve convinced yourself you’re not what someone wants. That’s not fair to you. And it’s not fair to them either.”

Keith blinked, not sure what to say.

“I’m serious,” Shiro added. “You don’t know Lance. Maybe he does like abs. Or maybe he likes kindness. Maybe he likes honesty. Maybe he likes the guy who stares at the yoga class every morning and still shows up, even when it’s hard. You don’t know.”

Keith sat in silence.

Then: “What if I’m just… not enough?”

Shiro reached out, gripping Keith’s shoulder with quiet strength. “Keith. You’re more than enough. Right now. As you are. Not ten pounds from now. Not when you can finally touch your toes. Not when you finally like what you see in the mirror. Now.”

Keith’s eyes burned, but he looked away before it could show.

“You don’t have to talk to him today,” Shiro said. “But don’t give up on something just because your brain’s being cruel to you.”

Keith let out a shaky breath. “You should’ve been a therapist.”

“I prefer yelling at people to do push-ups.”

Keith huffed a laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Thanks.”

Shiro stood and offered a hand. “Come on. I owe you a smoothie.”

Keith hesitated—then took it.

Something shifted after that day.

Keith didn’t say anything, didn’t tell Shiro he’d made a decision, but the change was clear in every rep, every drop of sweat, every second he stayed on the treadmill even after his lungs screamed for rest.

He stopped wearing the baggy hoodie. Not because he felt better about himself—God no—but because it got in the way. He didn’t care if people saw the soft belly, the stretch marks, the redness in his face. He wasn’t doing this for anyone else now.

He was doing it for him.
Well.
For him and the boy with honey skin and starlight eyes.

He wanted to be someone Lance could want.

Someone worthy.

So he worked.

Shiro noticed it first—how Keith no longer asked to stop early. How his form had sharpened, how he was lifting heavier, running longer, barely resting.

“Don’t kill yourself,” Shiro warned more than once.

Keith only responded with a tight smile and a clipped: “I’m fine.”

But Shiro wasn’t convinced. He knew Keith. He knew the fire in him—the kind that burned too hot when it came from pain. And this wasn’t ambition. It was desperation.

Still, he waited. Watched. Let Keith push.

Until one Thursday morning, while Keith wiped down his machine, Shiro casually leaned against the squat rack and said:

“Oh, by the way. You’ve got yoga today.”

Keith blinked, confused. “What?”

Shiro grinned. “Signed you up. Told Lance you’d be joining. He’s excited.”

“What?”

“You said you wanted to work on flexibility, remember?” Shiro said innocently. “Yoga helps with that. Plus, it’s time you two met properly.”

Keith stared at him, panic rising. “No. No way. I’m not ready—”

“You’ve literally been staring at him like he’s a sunrise you’re afraid to touch for weeks. It’s getting sad.”

Keith sputtered. “That’s—shut up!”

“Too late. Class starts in ten. I’ll even walk you there.”

“Shiro—”

“Get moving, soldier.”

Keith groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. His heart was already pounding.

He wasn’t ready. Not really. But some part of him—some hopeful, masochistic part—wanted to see him. To hear his voice again. Even if it meant being sweaty and awkward in front of him. Even if it meant being nothing more than a student.

The yoga studio was warm and softly lit, a contrast to the clatter of the main gym. Calming music filtered through the speakers—soft drums and chimes and some kind of flute Keith couldn’t name. People were already setting up mats when Keith stepped inside.

And then there was Lance.

He stood at the front of the room, barefoot and glowing as always, adjusting a speaker. His tank top was navy today, tucked slightly into the waistband of his fitted pants, his curls loose and wild around his face.

Keith froze in the doorway.

Lance turned—and spotted him.

“Hey!” Lance grinned and jogged over, eyes lighting up with recognition. “You’re the guy who keeps almost coming to class.”

Keith’s mouth was dry. “Uh. Yeah. I guess.”

Lance offered a hand. “I’m Lance. But you probably know that.”

Keith hesitated, then shook it. Lance’s hand was warm. Confident.

“Keith,” he said quietly.

“Well, Keith,” Lance said brightly, “welcome to yoga. No pressure, no stress. Just breathe and move however feels good. I’ll come check on you, but you’re free to go at your own pace.”

Keith nodded mutely.

He sat on a mat near the back, heart in his throat, while Lance moved around the room like he belonged to it—laughing with regulars, helping an older woman adjust her ankle support, then returning to the front like a performer ready for showtime.

The class began. Lance’s voice dropped into something low and fluid, guiding them through breathing, through stretching, through motion.

Keith could barely focus.

Every time Lance walked near, his skin prickled. Every time Lance adjusted someone else’s form, Keith both craved and feared the same attention.

And when Lance did stop beside him—kneeling gently to fix his shoulder position—Keith stopped breathing altogether.

“Here,” Lance said softly, guiding Keith’s elbow inward with the lightest touch, “keep your chest open. It’ll help your breathing. You’re doing great.”

Keith nodded, barely able to speak.

Then Lance smiled—just a quick, friendly grin—and moved on.

And Keith felt like he’d both won and lost something in the same breath.

After class, Keith lingered at the edge of the studio, kneeling to roll up his mat slowly. Too slowly. Just to give himself another few seconds in Lance’s orbit.

Lance approached, wiping his brow with a towel. “Hey. You survived.”

Keith gave a small laugh. “Barely.”

“You did really well, actually. First class?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I hope I see you again,” Lance said, reaching down to toss his towel in the basket. “It’s nice having new energy in the room. You’ve got… good presence.”

Keith blinked. “I do?”

Lance grinned. “Yeah. Kinda intense. But I like it.”

Keith flushed, looking down. “Thanks.”

“I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday if you wanna come again,” Lance added, already moving toward the door, distracted now by another student waving him over. “You’ve got a solid base. You’ll be bendy in no time.”

Keith watched him go.

His heart ached.

Because Lance didn’t say it like he was flirting. He didn’t say it with any sort of spark or intention. It was polite. Kind. The same tone he used for everyone else.

Keith turned away and pressed his mat tighter against his chest.

He couldn’t blame Lance.

After all… he was just the guy at the back of the room.

Keith didn’t go back to yoga.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he hadn’t felt something stir deep in his chest when Lance smiled at him. Not even because it had been hard—though his hamstrings still remembered.

He didn’t go back because he couldn’t take it.

Sitting in the back of that quiet studio, watching Lance float between students like he was made of sunlight and wind, Keith had felt like a lump of clay sitting among swans. Even Lance’s friendliness—gentle, effortless—felt like something given freely to everyone. Nothing special. Nothing his.

So he didn’t go back.

But that didn’t mean he stopped seeing Lance.

Every morning on the way to training with Shiro, Keith passed the glass wall of the yoga studio. And every morning, Lance was there—stretching, smiling, laughing with someone, sometimes dancing a little as he set up the music. And Keith, quiet and awkward, would pass by with his gym bag and his oversized shirt and his heart pounding in his chest.

And every time Lance caught his eye, he’d smile.

“Morning, Keith!”

Keith never got used to the way Lance said his name.

So he started saying hi back. Sometimes with a little wave. Sometimes just a nod. Sometimes Lance was too busy to notice him, and that was okay too—Keith didn’t expect anything. Just the occasional “good morning” was enough to carry him through a whole session.

And one day… it wasn’t just enough.

It was everything.

It was a Tuesday morning, and Keith was walking to the gym like always, earbuds in, the world half-muted around him. The sun was rising late, spilling gold across the sidewalk, and the breeze had that early warmth of spring.

That’s when he saw it.

A wild, overgrown bush right outside someone’s fence—green and full of tangled white flowers. Delicate, soft, slightly lopsided blooms that looked like they’d sprung up out of nowhere, chaotic and charming.

Keith stopped walking.

He looked at the bush. Then he thought of Lance.

He had no idea what he was doing—he didn’t even know if you were allowed to just… pluck flowers from someone’s plant. But his feet were already moving.

He picked the nicest one he could find. Not the most perfect—he didn’t trust perfect things—but one that was full and soft and had a tiny patch of yellow at its center like a little burst of joy.

He carried it awkwardly, careful not to crush the stem in his palm.

At the gym, he paused outside the yoga studio like always—and Lance was already there, humming to himself as he fiddled with the lights.

Keith hesitated. Then tapped the door.

Lance turned—and smiled. “Hey, you.”

Keith’s ears went red instantly. “Hey.”

Lance opened the door fully, letting the music spill out. “You need something?”

Keith swallowed and held up the flower like it was a peace offering. “I, uh… saw this on the way here. Thought you might like it.”

Lance blinked. “You brought me a flower?”

Keith froze. “I—I mean, yeah. But if that’s weird—”

“No!” Lance said quickly, his smile blooming even brighter. “It’s not weird. It’s sweet.”

Keith let out a small breath. “Okay. Cool.”

Lance took the flower gently, like it was something delicate and precious. “Wow… it’s really pretty. Smells good, too.” Then, without hesitation, he tucked it behind his ear, right into the mess of curls. “How do I look?”

Keith had to physically stop himself from staring. “You, uh. You look—yeah. Good. You always look good.”

Lance laughed and touched the flower gently. “Thanks, Keith. Seriously. This made my morning.”

Keith ducked his head, a little dizzy. “Glad you like it.”

“Good luck in your workout,” Lance added, stepping back into the studio. “Kill it out there, mullet.”

Keith blinked. “What?”

“Nothing!” Lance called with a wink before disappearing inside.

Keith stood frozen for another full minute before turning away.

His heart was sprinting.

That session with Shiro? Keith destroyed it.

Push-ups, rows, cardio—everything. He barely even noticed how hard he was working until Shiro whistled low and said, “You on something today?”

Keith, flushed and breathless, just shrugged.

“Nah.”

But inside, he was burning.

Because Lance had taken his flower.

And kept it in his hair the whole day.

Three months passed in quiet, determined steps.

Keith didn’t lose all the weight—not that he cared as much anymore. He was still chubby. Soft around the middle, arms thick, cheeks still full in photos. But he was stronger now. He could feel it. He could see it, sometimes, in the mirror when he caught himself unguarded. The way his thighs held firm under his joggers. The way his shoulders filled out shirts. The subtle slope of muscle under his skin, still hiding beneath softness, but there.

He had definition now. And not just physically.

He moved with more purpose. He didn’t walk into the gym looking for shadows to disappear into anymore. He walked in with earbuds and a plan. He still didn’t like mirrors, but he didn’t avoid them either. He started wearing T-shirts that actually fit—not too tight, but not drowning him either.

He still said hi to Lance every morning.

Still brought him flowers sometimes—wild little things picked from sidewalk corners or the occasional two-dollar market bouquet. Lance took every single one. Sometimes he’d weave one behind his ear. Sometimes he’d press them into the front desk vase. Once, Keith caught him tucking a dried flower into the corner of his mirror.

Keith said nothing. But he noticed.

Lance smiled at him every time. Bright. Effortless. Never flirty, not really—just warm.

And Keith would go crush his reps afterward like his life depended on it.

It was a Thursday when Keith first noticed something weird.

He was mid-set—lat pulldown, jaw clenched, arms burning—when he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Lance.

Not teaching yoga.

Just… hovering. Leaning against the desk near the stretching mats, sipping something from a to-go cup and talking to one of the trainers. He was dressed casually, yoga pants and a crop hoodie that showed a sliver of skin when he reached up to push his hair out of his face.

Keith’s heart did its usual backflip, then settled into that dull ache he’d grown used to.

But then Lance looked up—and saw him.

Keith blinked.

Lance lifted his cup in greeting. And smiled. Like, big.

Keith’s breath caught. His hands slipped slightly on the bar.

He looked away quickly and finished his set, face flushed, ears burning.

Afterward, when he wiped down the machine, Lance was gone.

Later that day, as Keith was leaving, he passed the front desk.

Lance wasn’t there.

But Pidge was.

Pidge, who knew everyone’s business even when no one told them anything. Pidge, who looked up from their laptop with a knowing smirk.

“You’re Flower Boy, right?”

Keith froze mid-step. “What?”

“You bring Lance flowers. You’re Flower Boy.”

“I—I don’t—”

Pidge tilted their head. “Relax. He likes them.”

Keith stared.

“He keeps them all,” they added, like it was nothing. “Tapes the best ones into his planner.”

Keith’s mouth opened. Then shut again.

“I mean, he doesn’t say anything,” Pidge continued, shrugging, “but he doesn’t keep stuff he doesn’t like. Trust me.”

Keith left the gym that day not knowing if his legs were shaking from the treadmill or from that sentence.

Keith had never been good at decisions.

But this one felt simple.

He’d made it while brushing his teeth, staring at his reflection in the steamed-up mirror. His hair was a mess, his shirt crooked, and toothpaste foam still clung to his chin—but his eyes were clear.

Tomorrow, he was going to ask Lance out.

He’d practiced it in his head a dozen times. Maybe something casual: “Hey, wanna grab coffee sometime?” Or something awkward and honest, like, “I think you’re really cool, and I’d like to know you outside of yoga and front desk greetings.”

He knew it might not go the way he wanted. But he also knew he couldn’t stay in limbo forever—hovering at the edge of Lance’s orbit, content with crumbs and stolen glances. He didn’t want to wonder anymore.

So he told himself, Tomorrow.

The next morning, Keith showed up early to the gym. Earlier than usual. He had a flower tucked into his hoodie pocket—soft pink this time, a little wrinkled from the walk but still beautiful in its own way.

His stomach was a mess of knots.

He scanned the front desk first. Empty.

Studio? Empty.

Okay. No big deal. Lance was probably setting up. Keith started warming up on the treadmill, eyes flicking toward the hallway every few seconds.

Nothing.

Shiro raised a brow. “You’re jumpy.”

Keith grunted. “I’m fine.”

Shiro narrowed his eyes but didn’t push.

Minutes passed. Then, finally, Keith caught sight of him—Lance, striding across the floor, hair tied up, wearing that stupidly soft-looking white hoodie, laughing as he walked with another instructor.

Keith’s heart stuttered. Okay. Now or never.

He wiped his hands on his shorts and took a step forward.

“Hey, Lance—”

But before he could even raise his voice, someone called Lance’s name, and he turned—just like that—and was swept away again, pulled into a conversation near the vending machines.

Keith tried to wait.

But every time Lance was alone, someone else showed up.

A client. A trainer. Another friend.

It was like the universe had conspired against him. He kept getting close, opening his mouth to speak—only for Lance to flash him a quick “sorry!” look as he was tugged in another direction.

Eventually, Keith gave up trying to time it perfectly.

He wandered near the back hallway, toward the side of the gym that opened out to the small outdoor patio space—a little concrete corner where trainers sometimes took their breaks, or clients stretched after runs.

There. Keith spotted him.

Lance was standing alone beside the vending machine just outside, sipping something from a paper cup. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Sunlight caught on the edge of his cheekbone.

Keith’s breath caught.

This is it.

He stepped closer, heart hammering. “Lance—?”

But then—he stopped.

There was someone else.

A guy—tall, lean, wearing joggers and a compression shirt—stepped into view from around the vending machine. He held a bottle of water, casually bumping Lance’s elbow as he said something. They laughed.

Keith backed up instinctively, behind the corner of the wall.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He really didn’t.

But he froze when he heard the guy’s voice, low and easy.

“So hey, um. This might be random but—would you wanna get drinks sometime? Or coffee, if that’s more your thing.”

Keith’s heart stopped.

There was a pause. Lance didn’t respond right away.

Keith couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t hear Lance say yes. He didn’t hear anything, actually. He just… turned.

And walked away.

Fast.

Out the gym. Down the sidewalk. Past the corner where he used to stop and pick flowers.

He didn’t look back.

By the time Keith got home, the flower in his hoodie pocket was crushed.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. He didn’t take his shoes off. He didn’t even blink for a while.

All he could think was: Of course.

Of course someone got to him first. Of course Lance would say yes. Of course Keith had waited too long.

And maybe the worst part wasn’t that Lance got asked out.

Maybe the worst part was how stupid he’d been to think he even had a shot.

Keith didn’t leave his apartment for three days.

The flower was still in his hoodie pocket the first day, wilted and bent, pressed flat beneath him when he fell asleep on the couch in the early morning hours.

He hadn’t cried. Not really. He just… sat there.

He told himself it was fine. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like they were dating. Lance hadn’t done anything wrong. He hadn’t led him on. He hadn’t promised him anything.

And yet it felt like someone had scraped out his chest and left the shell behind.

So Keith didn’t go to the gym.

He didn’t answer texts.

He didn’t even shower.

Instead, he ordered junk food—sugary cereal, burgers, fries, greasy takeout in crumpled bags. He ate past full. Not out of hunger. Just out of emptiness.

He barely tasted it.

The second day, he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling fan as it spun slowly overhead. It was too quiet. But music hurt. So did shows. So he let the silence swallow him.

On the third morning, there was a knock at the door.

A heavy, sharp knock.

Keith didn’t answer it at first.

Then came the voice: “Keith. Open the damn door.”

He winced.

Shiro.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

“I know you’re in there. You haven’t been at the gym. You haven’t responded to anything. Open. The. Door.”

Keith sat frozen on the couch.

More silence.

Then, finally—reluctantly—he stood and cracked the door open.

Shiro stood in the hallway, arms crossed, dressed in his trainer hoodie, looking like he hadn’t slept well either.

His eyes scanned Keith quickly. The shadows under his eyes. The crumpled shirt. The takeout bags in the corner of the room. The emptiness on his face.

“Jesus,” Shiro muttered. “You look like hell.”

Keith didn’t answer.

“You’re throwing it all away because of him?”

Still nothing.

Shiro took a step closer, voice hardening. “You’ve worked your ass off for months. You’ve pushed through pain, doubt, exhaustion. And now, because someone else asked out the guy you like, you’re just… done?”

Keith’s jaw clenched.

“You didn’t even ask him,” Shiro said. “You never gave yourself the chance.”

Keith finally spoke, voice flat. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Shiro stared at him. “So that’s it? All that progress—physically, mentally—and you're gonna bury it under french fries and pity because life didn’t give you what you wanted fast enough?”

Keith looked down. His hands curled into fists.

“You think I’m being cruel?” Shiro said, softer now. “Maybe I am. But you don’t get to throw away everything you’ve built because your heart’s broken.”

Keith looked up. “You don’t get it.”

“I do, Keith. I’ve been there. And it hurts. But you’re not a failure because someone didn’t love you back.”

Shiro stepped back from the doorway. His disappointment wasn’t loud—it was quiet. Worn-out. Real.

“Take the time you need,” he said. “But if you don’t come back—if you keep hiding like this—then you weren’t doing any of this for yourself to begin with.”

He turned and walked away.

Keith didn’t stop him.

Hours passed.

Keith didn’t move much at first.

But Shiro’s words kept echoing.

You weren’t doing any of this for yourself to begin with.

Was that true?

Was all of this—every rep, every drop of sweat—just to become someone Lance might like?

At first… maybe.

But now?

Keith looked around the apartment—at the empty wrappers, at his reflection in the TV screen. He saw his own slouched form. His own eyes, tired. Lost.

And he remembered what it felt like to lift heavier than he thought he could.

To run longer than the week before.

To look in the mirror and think—not hot, not perfect, but—strong.

And yeah, it had started with Lance.

But it didn’t have to end there.

That night, Keith cleaned.

Not just the trash—everything. The kitchen. The mirror. The bathroom. He took a shower, hot and grounding. He cut his nails. Brushed his hair. Drank water.

He didn’t text Shiro. Not yet.

But when he looked in the mirror afterward—clean-faced, eyes clearer—he saw something he hadn’t in days.

Resolve.

Next time I go back to the gym, Keith thought, it’s for me.

Not for Lance.

Not to impress anyone.

Just for me.

Because he was worth it—even when it felt like no one else saw it.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Keith didn’t kick the door open or walk in with some new swagger. He didn’t come in wearing a muscle tee or headphones or a mission-ready playlist blaring in his ears.

He just… showed up.

Hoodie. Gym bag. Hair tied back loosely.

He walked through the front doors of the gym on a cloudy Tuesday morning and scanned his keycard like it was any other day.

The person behind the desk didn’t even look up.

But when Shiro saw him from across the floor, his reaction was immediate.

He froze mid-set with a client, blinked twice, and then smiled. Not a smug smile. Not a “told you so” grin. Just something small. Quiet. Proud.

Keith nodded once in return and headed for the lockers without a word.

He didn’t need to say anything.

He was here.

Their session began like any other, but Shiro could feel the difference.

Keith was still quiet, still focused. But his movements were sharper. More grounded. Like he’d made peace with something inside himself.

He didn’t apologize when he had to slow down. He didn’t make a face when Shiro corrected his form. He just nodded, adjusted, and kept going.

He didn’t talk about Lance.

He didn’t need to.

Because he wasn’t here for Lance anymore.

He was here for himself.

After their cooldown stretch, Keith sat on the edge of the mat and pulled out his water bottle, wiping the sweat from his neck. His breathing was steady, not rushed. He looked tired, yeah—but in a good way.

Earned.

Shiro dropped down beside him and handed him a clean towel. “You good?”

Keith nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Keith glanced over. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Shiro smiled softly. “Yeah. You are.”

There was a beat of silence between them. The gym buzzed in the background—weights clanging, music humming low from the speakers—but this moment was quiet. Solid.

“I’m proud of you,” Shiro said.

Keith swallowed. “You were right. About everything.”

“I wasn’t trying to be right,” Shiro replied. “I was trying to make sure you didn’t forget how far you’ve come.”

Keith nodded slowly.

“I can see it,” Shiro added, voice lower now. “There’s something different in you.”

Keith raised a brow. “What? Am I finally ripped?”

Shiro snorted. “No. Still soft as hell. But your shoulders don’t slouch like they used to. You walk like you take up space now.”

Keith blinked.

And then—very faintly—he smiled.

After their session, Keith wandered over to the water fountain. He didn’t expect to see Lance.

But there he was—bent over a drawer behind the front desk, organizing files, humming to himself off-key.

Keith hesitated.

He could leave now. He could avoid it.

But something in him had shifted.

He wasn’t here to win Lance anymore.

He was just here.

So he walked up and gently tapped the counter.

Lance looked up, surprised. “Hey! Look who’s alive.”

Keith chuckled. “Yeah. Took a break.”

Lance tilted his head, eyes soft. “You okay?”

Keith paused. Then nodded. “Getting there.”

“Good,” Lance said. “I missed seeing you around.”

Keith’s heart jumped.

But he didn’t melt this time.

He smiled back, calm. “It’s good to be back.”

For someone who wasn’t actively hiding, Keith sure got good at avoiding.

He knew Lance’s schedule like a second skin now. Morning yoga Tuesdays and Thursdays. Desk shifts after 2 p.m. on Fridays. Personal classes Wednesday evenings. And Keith navigated the gym around those like he was walking a minefield.

He’d time his cardio before Lance’s class, finish his strength sets while Lance was in the studio, and duck out the back door instead of using the lobby when he could help it.

It wasn’t mature. He knew that.

But it hurt less than having to look Lance in the face and pretend like nothing had happened.

Because Keith still remembered the vending machine. Still remembered that fluttering hope just seconds before it was crushed. Still remembered how stupid he’d felt with that flower in his pocket.

So he avoided.

He trained with Shiro. He ate better. He slept. He healed.

But every time he saw Lance from a distance—laughing, glowing, effortlessly magnetic—it still pinched.

It all came undone on a Wednesday.

Keith was mid-bench press, sweat dripping down his temple, Shiro out of sight, when he heard the voice that still sent static down his spine.

“Well well. Look who’s finally stopped ghosting me.”

Keith’s heart stuttered.

He didn’t even need to look. He knew that voice.

Lance.

He gritted his teeth, finished the rep, and sat up slowly, wiping at his face with his towel.

Lance stood just beside the bench—arms crossed, hip cocked, still in his gym hoodie and joggers, clearly off-shift but hanging around anyway. His expression wasn’t angry, not exactly.

But he was annoyed. Confused.

And hurt.

Keith sighed. “Hey.”

“That’s all I get? ‘Hey?’”

Keith stood and moved to re-rack the weights, avoiding eye contact. “I’ve been busy.”

“Bullshit,” Lance said, sharp and fast. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Keith froze. He didn’t answer.

Lance stepped in closer. “Did I… do something?”

Keith blinked at him. “What?”

“You disappeared,” Lance said, voice lower now, more uncertain. “I thought we were… okay? I thought we were maybe friends, even. You were giving me flowers, Keith. And then you vanished. No yoga. No ‘hey’ at the front desk. Nothing.”

Keith swallowed.

Lance was right there now—close, warm, too much.

“I just needed space,” Keith said quietly. “It wasn’t you.”

“But it feels like me,” Lance said, not moving. “And I keep going over it in my head, like—did I lead you on? Did I say something wrong?”

Keith looked up at him sharply. “No. You didn’t.”

“Then what?” Lance pressed.

Keith opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Lance waited.

And finally, Keith exhaled and said, barely above a whisper:

“I saw you. With that guy. Outside. He asked you out.”

Lance blinked. “You mean Evan?”

Keith’s throat was dry.

“He asked me out,” Lance admitted, eyes searching his. “Yeah. I said no.”

Keith froze. “What?”

“I said no,” Lance repeated, slower this time, like he wanted it to sink in. “He’s… sweet, I guess. But not my type. And I was already thinking about someone else.”

Keith’s mouth opened. “I—wait, what?”

“You ran off before you let me finish talking,” Lance said. “Before you even gave me a chance to figure you out.”

Silence stretched between them.

Keith could barely breathe. “I thought—”

“Yeah, I know,” Lance said, more softly now. “That’s the thing. You always think, but you never ask. You just disappear.”

Keith’s chest ached.

“I’m not mad,” Lance added, finally stepping back, letting the air clear between them. “I just want to understand. Because I thought… maybe.”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

And Keith stood there—sweaty, breathless, heart pounding—and realized he was still standing at the edge of something.

But maybe this time, it wasn’t rejection waiting on the other side.

It wasn’t overnight.

The soreness didn’t vanish. The old thoughts didn’t stop visiting sometimes—sharp and mean in the quiet hours. But they didn’t stick the way they used to.

Three more months.

That’s how long it took before Keith looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t wince. He didn’t suck in his stomach. He didn’t tug at his shirt. He just… looked.

And liked what he saw.

His body had shifted again. Still broad-shouldered and solid, but the softness had given way to sleek, lean muscle. His arms were defined now, his legs strong and steady, his chest holding shape even under a loose T-shirt. There was a little curve to his waist still—he wasn’t carved like marble—but he didn’t want that anymore.

This body didn’t need to be punished or starved or reshaped into someone else’s dream.

It just needed to feel like his.

And now it finally did.

The gym didn’t feel like enemy territory anymore, either.

He moved through it like he belonged. Focused. Confident. His sets were cleaner. His endurance was up. He even started showing other people how to adjust their machines sometimes—quietly, of course—but still. A far cry from the kid who’d nearly passed out doing his first round of squats.

Even Shiro had noticed.

“You’ve come a long way,” he said one afternoon, clapping Keith on the back after a brutal round of weighted pull-ups. “You’re a whole different person.”

“No,” Keith replied, panting. “Still me.”

Shiro grinned. “Yeah. But now you know that.”

Keith didn’t say it aloud, but that meant everything.

Lance, though?

That was… complicated.

The air between them stayed awkward for weeks after their confrontation. Lance didn’t push. Keith didn’t explain. They saw each other sometimes—passing in the hallway, catching each other’s eyes across the floor—but the warmth that had once lived in their hellos was gone.

Still, Lance didn’t ignore him.

He still said “morning.” Still flashed him little half-smiles when their eyes met. Once, Keith caught him lingering a second too long before turning away.

But nothing else came of it.

And Keith—finally, truly—stopped waiting.

He let it be what it was: weird. Unresolved. Lingering in that space between almost and never.

But for the first time in his life, it didn’t make him feel less.

Because the truth was… he was okay.

Better than okay.

He didn’t need Lance to look at him to feel like he mattered. He didn’t need approval. Or flowers kept in mirrors. Or hints. Or maybes.

He’d spent years trying to make his body a battlefield.

And now?

It was his home.

“Pizza,” Shiro declared one Friday afternoon, tossing Keith a towel as he finished up his final reps. “You’ve earned it.”

Keith blinked, catching the towel. “Wait, seriously?”

Shiro grinned. “Yeah. My treat. You’ve been on your A-game for months now, and I’m feeling generous.”

Keith arched an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Shiro said with exaggerated innocence. “Except, well… I invited a few people. Pidge. Hunk. And, uh…” He hesitated. “Lance.”

Keith stared.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Shiro muttered. “You guys are adults. I figured it was time.”

Keith didn’t say no.

He probably should’ve said no.

But part of him thought—I can handle it. I’m fine now. We’re fine.

So he went.

The pizza place was casual and loud, with string lights strung across the ceiling and mismatched chairs around big wooden tables. The air smelled like garlic, cheese, and warm dough—comforting, familiar, easy.

Keith arrived before the others and claimed a spot at the end of the table, nursing a soda while texting Shiro: here.

Shiro showed up next with Pidge in tow. Then came Hunk, all broad shoulders and a sunshine laugh that made heads turn when he entered. Keith had always liked Hunk—he was kind, thoughtful, never made Keith feel small.

But then Lance walked in.

And Keith’s stomach flipped.

He looked… unfair.

Hair messy in a styled way that looks effortless. A faded crop top that hung loose around his frame, showing slivers of his stomach when he reached up to wave. High-waisted jeans. Dangly little earrings shaped like tiny stars.

“Hey, losers,” Lance greeted cheerfully.

Keith swallowed and nodded his greeting. “Hey.”

And then he watched—tried not to watch—as Lance practically melted against Hunk’s side.

He slung an arm over Hunk’s shoulders. Leaned into him like it was second nature. Whispered something in his ear that made Hunk laugh, bright and loud.

Keith tried to ignore it.

But they kept sitting close. Closer than Keith liked. Their arms brushed every time Lance reached for a slice. Lance stole food off Hunk’s plate. Their knees bumped.

And Keith… hated it.

He didn’t even know what they were. Friends? Maybe. Best friends, even. But the way Lance laughed at Hunk’s jokes with his whole face, the way his hand stayed casually on Hunk’s thigh for a full minute while telling a story—

Keith had to mentally slap himself.

Stop it.

You’re over him, remember?

This was supposed to be over.

He forced his eyes down to his plate and focused on the greasy slice of pepperoni. He could hear Lance’s voice just two seats away, bright and carefree, and it made something crawl under his skin.

He’s not yours. He never was.

He felt the ache settle into his ribs again, quiet and sharp. Like an old bruise he’d thought had healed.

Shiro caught his eye from across the table.

Keith shook his head subtly and went back to eating.

Later, while Hunk was ordering dessert and Pidge was dragging Shiro into a debate about pineapple toppings, Keith stepped outside for air.

He leaned against the cool brick wall, staring up at the stars peeking through the streetlights, exhaling slowly.

You’re fine, he told himself.

You look good. You’re stronger. You’re confident. You’re whole. You don’t need him.

But the truth lingered somewhere deeper, where the air was quieter.

He still wasn’t over Lance.

And maybe… he didn’t want to be.

Keith had barely been outside for five minutes before the door creaked open behind him.

Footsteps. Light ones.

Not Lance’s.

Keith didn’t have to turn to know it was Hunk.

“Hey, man,” Hunk said gently, stepping up beside him with his hands in his hoodie pockets. “You good?”

Keith exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”

“Liar,” Hunk said with a small smile.

Keith said nothing.

They stood there a while, the sounds of the restaurant muffled behind them, the buzz of traffic humming in the distance.

“Listen,” Hunk started, eyes still on the street, “I know I’m not the loudest guy in the room when it comes to this kind of stuff, but I see things.”

Keith glanced at him, wary. “Like what?”

Hunk looked over with a kind, knowing expression. “Like how you’ve been avoiding Lance for months. Like how you didn’t say ten words all night, except to your slice of pepperoni. And how you’ve been glaring at me like I stole your dog.”

Keith flushed. “I haven’t—”

“You have, dude,” Hunk laughed softly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Keith looked away. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not,” Hunk said. “Lance is… hard not to notice.”

That made Keith snort.

Hunk bumped his shoulder. “But here’s the thing: me and Lance? We’re not a thing.”

Keith blinked.

“I mean, he clings. That’s just Lance. He touches everyone. He’s loud and physical and always right there, you know? But it doesn’t mean anything. Not with me.”

Keith turned slowly. “You’re not…?”

“Nope,” Hunk said, popping the p. “He’s like a brother. An annoying, glitter-covered brother who steals my food and my hoodies.”

Keith swallowed. “Right.”

“And just so you know,” Hunk added, tilting his head toward him, “he’s not as over you as he pretends to be.”

Keith’s heart jumped. “What?”

Hunk grinned. “You think he didn’t notice how much you changed? You think he didn’t miss you when you ghosted the gym? You should’ve seen him after you left. He kept asking Pidge if he messed up. It drove her nuts.”

Keith stared.

“He likes you,” Hunk said simply. “He always did. But you kept pushing him away.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Keith murmured.

“I know,” Hunk said. “But maybe now’s your chance to stop doing that.”

Silence settled again, thicker now.

“You’re a good guy, Keith,” Hunk added after a beat. “You’ve come a long way. Don’t let your old insecurities talk you out of something just because you think you’re not what someone wants.”

Keith didn’t respond right away.

But his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

“I thought I was over him,” Keith finally admitted.

“Maybe you were trying to be,” Hunk said. “But the good ones… they’re hard to shake.”

Keith let out a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, man.”

They stood like that a while longer. Two guys, leaning on a brick wall, not saying much — but saying enough.

The next day was cloudy, soft and gray.

Keith woke up late, hair mussed, limbs heavy but not sore. He stayed in bed longer than usual, eyes fixed on the ceiling, replaying the night before in quiet, flickering frames.

Lance laughing into Hunk’s shoulder.
Lance’s knees brushing someone else's.
He’s not over you like he pretends to be.

Keith rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow.

His stomach flipped again — not in that crashing, panicked way it used to when he thought about Lance. This was something else. An ache, still, but duller now. Wrapped in hope.

It scared him.

But it didn’t paralyze him.

The gym was quieter the next morning. Keith liked it that way. No music blaring, no packed machines. Just the rhythmic clink of metal, the occasional grunt, the low buzz of a distant fan.

He went alone. Shiro had a late shift.

He kept his hoodie on longer than usual, took his time warming up. Not rushing anything. Just moving. Stretching. Feeling his body do what it was made to do.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror during a rest. The muscles in his arms flexed when he exhaled. His jaw was sharper than it used to be. His eyes didn’t look so unsure anymore.

You’ve come a long way.

He thought about what Hunk said. About Lance. About the way Keith had pulled back out of fear — how he always did. About the things he never let himself believe he deserved.

And he didn’t reach for his phone. He didn’t text Lance. He didn’t charge through the doors of yoga and pour his heart out.

But he thought about it.

And that was new.

That night, Keith sat at his window with the curtain pulled back, watching the rain start to mist down in soft lines over the glass. He didn’t feel frantic. He didn’t feel hopeless.

He just… wondered.

Maybe the next time he saw Lance, he’d try.

Maybe.

Just to see what would happen if, for once, he didn’t run.

Keith never thought he'd wear something like this.

The compression shirt had sat in his drawer for weeks. Black, sleeveless, skin-hugging — something he bought on impulse during a sale, then promptly folded away like it was mocking him. Back then, he couldn’t even look at it without thinking, Not yet. Not for me.

But today?

He felt different.

His body had changed. Not just on the outside — in the way he moved, the way he carried himself. When he pulled the shirt on that morning and caught his reflection, his first thought wasn’t, I shouldn’t wear this.

It was, Damn.

His arms looked defined. His shoulders were cut and broad, his waist pulled in, chest firm. He didn’t look perfect, maybe, but he looked strong. Capable. Like someone who’d fought to get here.

And for once, he didn’t feel like hiding it.

The gym was buzzing by late morning, but Keith kept his focus.

He worked through his warmup with ease, hoodie tied around his waist, earbuds in. Deadlifts, chest press, incline rows. He wasn’t rushing. He was in it. Present.

He barely noticed the movement near the stretching area. Not at first.

But then there was a loud, unmistakable thud.

Followed by a tiny gasp.

He looked up instinctively, one hand still gripping a dumbbell.

And there was Lance — down on one knee near the yoga mats, pretending to adjust a water bottle that had absolutely not rolled anywhere. His face was red.

Their eyes met.

And Lance jerked his head away so fast it was comical, like he’d been caught staring straight into the sun.

Keith blinked. His heart stuttered — not with embarrassment. With something else.

He watched Lance mumble something to the trainer next to him, grab the bottle, and walk off like nothing had happened… except he bumped into a foam roller on the way and almost tripped again.

Keith… smiled.

No way.

He looked down at himself. At the tight stretch of fabric over his biceps. At the way his chest rose and fell under the fabric. At the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbones.

And for the first time ever?

He didn’t blush.

Lance blushed.

Keith went back to his reps — but slower now. The whole time, he could feel Lance glancing his way from across the floor. And this time, Keith didn’t avoid it.

He let himself be seen.

And when he caught Lance looking again — red-faced, eyes darting away like he hadn’t just checked Keith out for a full five seconds — Keith smiled.

Just a little.

Keith wasn’t just fit anymore.

He was the kind of fit that made people pause mid-set.

He didn’t notice it at first — not really. The changes had come slow, gradual, earned with hours of consistency, sore muscles, protein shakes he hated, and early mornings when he almost didn’t get up.

But one day, he caught his reflection in the gym mirror and didn’t recognize himself.

His shoulders were broader, arms sculpted and defined. His biceps popped under every T-shirt. His abs, once hidden beneath softness, were sharp now — lean lines that showed even when he wasn’t flexing.

His face, too, had changed.

The baby fat was gone, melted away and replaced with sharp edges — a jaw that could cut glass, cheekbones that stood out strong under sweat. His eyes looked deeper somehow, more intense. His lips still had that natural pout — but now they rested under a face that looked undeniably, effortlessly masculine.

He used to shrink himself.

Now, he took up space without apologizing.

Shiro had long since stopped training him — not because Keith slacked off, but because he didn’t need the hand-holding anymore.

He knew his routines. He’d mastered form. He’d figured out how to push himself without burning out.

Sometimes Shiro would pass him during cooldowns and clap a hand on his back with a proud grin. “Look at you, muscle boy.”

Keith would just roll his eyes — but secretly, he didn’t hate it.

He got hit on now.

A lot.

Sometimes by women — bold and chatty, complimenting his shoulders or asking if he “modeled or something.” Sometimes by guys — some subtle, some not. A few compliments on his arms. One guy actually tripped while trying to flirt mid-set.

It was… flattering, sure.

But Keith didn’t care much.

He’d smile politely, nod, brush it off. Not rude, but distant.

None of them were him.

And then there was Lance.

Still radiant. Still soft and smug and infuriating and funny. Still running his yoga classes like the center of the universe. Still stretching in ways that made Keith die internally every time he passed by.

But things between them had shifted.

Lance didn’t look away anymore when he saw Keith. He looked twice.

And Keith? Keith didn’t hide.

He let Lance look. Met his eyes. Walked past shirtless sometimes, if he’d just finished a set and needed air. Wiped sweat from his jaw with slow, deliberate care.

He told himself it wasn’t on purpose.

But… maybe it was.

Maybe he liked how Lance’s face flushed a little too easily these days.

Maybe he liked that, for once, he was the one making Lance nervous.

The gym was unusually quiet that afternoon.

Keith had just wrapped his workout, towel draped over his shoulder, shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his frame. His hoodie was tied loosely around his waist, earbuds tucked away, water bottle nearly empty.

He usually didn’t wander much post-workout. Just hit the lockers, rinse off, and go.

But that day, for whatever reason, he passed by the yoga studio.

The lights were dimmed inside, soft instrumental music drifting from a small speaker in the corner. No class was scheduled at this hour.

Yet there was someone inside.

Keith slowed.

Through the tall glass pane, he caught a glimpse of Lance.

Alone.

Lance was in the center of the studio, barefoot, legs stretched out in a deep forward fold, forehead nearly brushing the mat. His back rose and fell slowly, shirt riding up just enough to reveal the small curve of his waist. His fingers were long, elegant, and relaxed in the stretch.

He moved with the grace Keith had always noticed—fluid and intentional, every motion like a slow exhale.

Keith didn’t mean to stare.

But he did.

Just for a moment.

Lance pushed up into a backbend next, arms lifting, spine arching, chest open to the ceiling. He held it, breathing steady, completely unaware he wasn’t alone.

Keith swallowed.

Then Lance turned slightly.

And saw him.

The shift was instant.

Lance jolted, startled—nearly lost his balance, catching himself on one hand as his face flushed deep red.

“Jesus, Keith,” Lance said, voice breathy. “Don’t hover like a serial killer!”

Keith stepped back from the glass, raising a hand. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Lance grabbed a towel from beside his mat and wiped his face dramatically. “Yeah, well, next time maybe don’t stare at me like I’m about to levitate.”

Keith smirked, leaning against the doorway now. “You were doing that weird bendy pretzel thing. I was… impressed.”

Lance blinked. “You were watching?”

Keith let the smile curl at the edge of his mouth. “Hard not to.”

Lance looked away quickly, rubbing the back of his neck with his towel. “Well, if you’re gonna lurk, you might as well come inside. I could use a spot for the standing poses.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You want me to do yoga?”

Lance turned, already grinning. “No. I want you to stand there and make sure I don’t break my spine.”

“…Sounds fake.”

Lance rolled his eyes and stretched one leg behind him into a dancer’s pose, wobbling slightly. “C’mon. Don’t make me beg.”

Keith blinked once.

Then stepped inside.

“…Okay.”

The yoga room was quiet, dim, and warm.

Keith leaned against the far wall, arms folded, towel slung over his neck. His chest still rose and fell from his post-workout cooldown, and his compression shirt clung to him like second skin. His biceps flexed with even the smallest movement. His jaw was sharp under the low light.

He looked like a painting come to life.

Lance had tried to ignore it. Really, he had.

But stretching with Keith watching him like that? Impossible.

“You’re staring,” Lance muttered, eyes closed as he reached into a twist.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who invited me in.”

“Not to be visually violated.”

Keith smirked, voice like velvet. “You’ve literally stretched in front of thirty people. What’s the difference?”

“You’re different,” Lance said before he could stop himself.

Keith’s smile flickered.

The air shifted.

Slowly, Lance rose from his stretch, muscles pulled taut, face warm. He turned toward Keith—and immediately regretted it. He hadn’t realized how close Keith had gotten.

He could feel the heat off his skin. See the way a bead of sweat trailed down his neck. And Keith wasn’t smirking anymore.

He was just… looking.

Intent. Quiet. Eyes dark, lips parted.

Like he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do next.

Lance’s breath caught.

The tension between them was palpable, pressed tight like two magnets barely held apart. One more shift and—

Lance moved.

He surged forward, catching Keith by the front of his shirt and yanking him down—and kissed him.

Hard.

Keith reacted instantly.

Hands on Lance’s hips, pulling him closer, mouth moving against his like he’d been waiting for months—which, well, he had. It was hungry. Messy. All the words Keith wouldn’t say poured into that kiss, like he could speak through his lips instead.

Lance whimpered into it, fingers curling tighter into Keith’s shirt, body arching to meet him like instinct. Like they’d done this before in a dream.

They didn’t come up for air until they absolutely had to.

When they pulled apart, it was sudden. Breathing hard, flushed. Keith’s hands lingered at Lance’s waist, trembling ever so slightly.

Lance stared at him, lips pink and swollen, eyes wide.

Keith didn’t speak.

Didn’t say a thing.

The silence was heavy, loud.

And then—

“Keith?”

The door creaked open.

They jumped apart like they’d been electrocuted.

Shiro stuck his head into the room, looking casual, a towel around his neck. “You still here? I need a—” He stopped.

Paused.

Blink. Blink.

Keith wiped at his mouth quickly. Lance turned away, pretending to adjust a mat that did not need adjusting.

Shiro raised a brow.

“…Spot me for bench?”

Keith’s voice cracked slightly. “Yeah. Sure.”

Shiro nodded, ever the professional. “Cool.”

He vanished.

The door clicked shut.

Lance let out a strangled sound. “Oh my god.”

Keith stood there, expression unreadable, jaw clenched, still breathing fast.

Neither of them said anything.

But everything had changed.

It had been four days.

Four painfully long, tension-soaked, ego-bruising days.

And Lance hadn’t said a word.

No flirty comments. No eye contact. No coy smiles. Not even the usual “Hey, muscle man” when Keith passed by the yoga studio.

It was like the kiss never happened.

Like the heat of Lance’s mouth on his, the way he’d pulled him in like he needed it, the way his hands shook when they finally broke apart—none of it mattered.

Lance was pretending.

Pretending that nothing had changed.

And Keith? He didn’t know what to do with that.

He saw him earlier that day by the smoothie bar, laughing with Hunk and pointing at something on his phone like he didn’t have a single care in the world. And for the first time in months, Keith didn’t feel strong.

He felt like that awkward, insecure guy again. The one who never said the right thing. The one who didn’t know if he was allowed to want something like Lance.

He didn’t even finish his set that day.

He just walked off the floor and headed to the back, sweat cooling too fast on his skin.

Shiro found him near the water station, absently refilling his bottle for the third time, eyes far away.

“Hey,” Shiro said, leaning on the counter beside him. “You good?”

Keith nodded automatically. “Yeah.”

Shiro tilted his head. “You sure?”

Keith clenched his jaw. “Fine.”

“You look like you just got rejected by a protein shake.”

Keith let out a sharp breath. “Don’t start.”

Shiro raised his eyebrows, then softened. “Okay. But... you’ve been off all week. You haven’t missed a day at the gym in six months, and today you walked out halfway through incline press. What’s going on?”

Keith hesitated.

He didn’t want to say it.

But it was written all over his face.

Shiro sighed. “This about Lance?”

Keith looked away.

That was answer enough.

Shiro leaned in a little, voice lower. “Did something happen?”

Keith gave him a tired, bitter laugh. “Yeah. He kissed me.”

Shiro blinked. “Wait—what?”

Keith wiped a hand down his face. “In the yoga studio. That day you barged in.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Shiro processed that for a moment. “And now…?”

Keith shrugged, trying to look casual. It didn’t work. “Now he’s pretending it didn’t happen. Like it was an accident. Like I imagined it.”

Shiro studied him for a second, then said gently, “Maybe he’s scared.”

Keith scoffed. “Of me?”

“Of what it means,” Shiro said. “Of what it could be. You’ve been dancing around each other for months, Keith. That kiss didn’t come out of nowhere. And if it hit you that hard, it probably hit him too.”

Keith went quiet.

“It’s easier to pretend something didn’t happen than to admit it mattered,” Shiro added.

Keith didn’t answer right away.

But something cracked in his expression — a flicker of hurt, of hope, of frustration and want.

“I just thought... maybe it finally meant something to him, too.”

Shiro rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then talk to him. Don’t let this sit and rot.”

Keith stared down into his water bottle like it might give him answers.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lance was trying to act normal.

Keyword: trying.

He was leaning against the front desk, scrolling through his phone and laughing at something Pidge had sent him, the smile on his face a little too wide, a little too fake. His legs bounced nervously. His fingers were too twitchy. He hadn’t even gone into the yoga room today.

He hadn’t seen Keith, and that was on purpose.

But fate—cruel, gorgeous, shredded fate—had other plans.

“Lance.”

That voice.

Low. Calm. Dangerous.

Lance looked up—and froze.

Keith stood a few feet away, tank top dark with sweat, arms taut, chest heaving slightly from a fresh set. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were fixed only on Lance.

Lance swallowed. “Oh. Uh. Hey—”

“Come with me.”

Not a question.

Not even a request.

He turned and walked.

And like a fool—or a moth to the most dangerous flame—Lance followed.

Keith didn’t stop until they were behind the unused studio near the stairwell, tucked away from view. The music from the gym floor was a dull thump in the background.

Then he turned.

And cornered him.

Lance barely had time to blink before Keith’s hand was right above his head, the other resting on the wall beside him, forearms caging him in. His entire body towered over Lance’s, shoulders broad and terrifying and stupidly hot, muscles practically vibrating with tension.

Lance’s brain short-circuited.

“Uh. Hi.”

Keith’s voice was low and tight. “You kissed me.”

Lance blinked fast. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Technically.”

Keith leaned in, just enough to make Lance feel the heat of his breath. “Then you ignored me for days.”

“I—” Lance squeaked, then cleared his throat. “I didn’t ignore—okay. I kind of did.”

Keith’s eyes burned. “Why?”

Lance’s mouth opened, then shut. He looked everywhere but at Keith—at the wall, the floor, the ceiling—anywhere that wasn’t the devastatingly handsome, ridiculously built man currently looming over him like a living sin.

“I panicked, okay?” Lance finally blurted, eyes wide. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. You were—God, Keith, you. You’re like—cool now! And hot! And you walk around the gym looking like a final boss and people literally drool when you pick up a dumbbell and—”

Keith raised an eyebrow.

“And I thought if I acted normal, I wouldn’t... I don’t know, explode or something,” Lance muttered.

Keith was silent.

Lance kept rambling. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did. And then you didn’t say anything and I didn’t say anything and now everything’s just—”

Keith cut him off.

Not with words.

With his mouth.

The kiss wasn’t soft this time.

It was urgent.

Keith’s hands slid around Lance’s waist and yanked him forward with a force that knocked the breath out of him. His mouth claimed Lance’s like it was owed. Like he’d waited long enough.

Lance melted into it, fingers curling into Keith’s shirt, gripping tight. His knees buckled slightly under the weight of it all.

When Keith finally pulled back, breath ragged, he didn’t move far.

He stayed close, forehead pressed against Lance’s.

“You drive me crazy,” Keith whispered.

Lance blinked up at him, dazed. “Right back at you, boss fight.”

Keith chuckled softly. “Next time you kiss me… don’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

Lance bit his lip, still breathless. “Promise.”

It started with that kiss in the stairwell.

And it never really stopped.

A week later, Lance tugged him into the empty yoga studio between classes and kissed him breathless behind the supply cabinet.

A few days after that, Keith was wiping down a bench when Lance passed by, threw him a wink, and whispered, “Meet me by the second floor lockers.”

They didn’t even make it that far.

Keith pressed Lance into the wall behind the water coolers, mouth on his neck, hands under his shirt, both of them grinning like they were seventeen and up to no good.

And every time, it was the same.

Hot. Desperate. Quiet and reckless.

But never more.

Lance never said anything after. Never lingered.

He’d fix his hair, smirk, maybe throw a, “Try not to miss me too much, mullet,” and then vanish.

And Keith?

Keith was losing it.

He told himself it was fine. This was fine. He was fine.

Except he wasn’t.

Because now he knew what Lance tasted like. How his hands felt in Keith’s hair. The soft little noise he made when Keith kissed him hard enough to steal his breath.

And he was obsessed.

It wasn’t enough.

He didn’t want to kiss Lance when no one was looking.

He wanted to take him out. Sit across from him at a booth in a too-small diner and watch him talk with his hands. Walk beside him down the street, brushing pinkies. Fall asleep next to him in a pile of laundry and stolen blankets.

He wanted to know him.

Not just the sharp edges and the teasing smile—but the quiet stuff too.

So the next time Lance grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and pulled him behind the unused squat rack in the corner, Keith let him kiss him breathless like always—

But this time, he pulled back.

Lance blinked, lips swollen, still breathless. “What’s wrong?”

Keith looked at him.

Really looked at him.

“You make me crazy,” he said.

Lance smiled, breath hitching. “That’s kinda the point.”

Keith didn’t smile back.

“I want to take you out.”

The smile faded from Lance’s lips.

Keith’s voice was steady. Quiet. “Like… on a date.”

Lance’s eyes searched his, and for a second—just a second—he looked scared.

But then something softened.

He reached into his waistband, grabbed his phone, and unlocked it without breaking eye contact.

“Give me your number, mullet.”

Keith exhaled, heart thumping like a drum.

He took the phone.

Typed it in.

Handed it back.

Lance looked at the screen, saved it, then grinned. “You’re officially in my phone as ‘Hot Gym Goth.’”

Keith rolled his eyes. “I wear black, not eyeliner.”

“Semantics.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the tension different now. Quieter. Warmer.

Keith reached out and tucked a stray curl behind Lance’s ear.

“Friday?” he asked.

Lance leaned up on his toes and brushed his lips over Keith’s again—just once. Soft.

“Friday.”

He yanked open the drawer that held all his off-duty clothes — the ones he hadn’t touched in months — and pulled out his old, faded black skinny jeans with the rips at the knees. They hugged his legs just right, low on his hips, the kind of jeans that made people stare a little too long when he walked.

Then came the shirt.

He found a black long-sleeve, just tight enough to outline the muscles he’d worked his ass off for. He layered a dark gray zip up hoodie over it.
Boots. Worn leather. Slight heel.

Chains.

He clipped one to his belt loop and added a silver ring on each middle finger.

He put in his piercings — black studs in the lobes, a silver hoop in the cartilage, and one that glinted at the edge of his lip.

Hair?

Down, slightly damp from the shower, falling in soft black waves around his face.

When he looked in the mirror… he almost didn’t recognize himself.

And he kind of liked it.

He hesitated at the door.

Swallowed hard.

"You can lift 200 pounds," he told his reflection. "You can handle dinner with a pretty boy."

He paused.

Then smirked, just a little.

"And if he wants to climb you like a rope, that's his problem."

Keith sat in his car, parked a few doors down from Lance’s building, engine idling low.

He could’ve walked. Could’ve said something like “hey, it’s not far, let’s stretch our legs.” But no.

He had a car. A nice one. Matte black, clean inside and out, tinted windows, leather seats. It wasn’t flashy — but it was hot, the way everything Keith owned was hot without trying.

He hadn’t touched the aux yet. His fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel, rings clicking quietly. The AC whirred softly, keeping him from sweating through his already dangerously tight black long-sleeve.

His stomach had been doing flips for the past thirty minutes.

This wasn’t even the first time they were seeing each other outside the gym — but it felt different. This time, it was a date. Lance had said yes. Gave him his number. Sent a smiley face emoji. And now Keith was outside his apartment, looking like he wanted to be worshipped by a coven, heart racing like it was his first fight.

He checked the mirror again. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Calm down.”

He picked up his phone, shot Lance a text:

“Outside when you’re ready.”

Then tossed the phone face-down in the cupholder like it offended him.

And waited.

Three minutes later, the front door of Lance’s building opened.

Keith looked up.

His heart stopped.

Lance stepped out into the evening light like a punch to the chest. Soft joggers hugging his legs, white sneakers, a cropped tan tee that showed off a little strip of his stomach when he moved. His curls were clipped up, gold jewelry glinting at his ears, glasses slipping low on his nose.

He spotted the car, smiled, and jogged over.

Keith didn’t breathe.

He just hit the unlock button.

Lance slid into the passenger seat with a grin, slightly breathless. “Damn. Okay, Mr. Mysterious. I see you.”

Keith glanced over, tried not to let his eyes linger on the way Lance's shirt shifted when he buckled his seatbelt.

“You look nice,” Keith said, voice a little lower than normal.

Lance blinked. “You look like a goddamn vampire biker. I feel underdressed.”

Keith smirked. “You’re not.”

Lance looked at him. Really looked.

And then very softly: “You’re really nervous about this, aren’t you?”

Keith stared at the road, jaw tense.

“Little bit.”

Lance leaned his head against the seat, smile softening.

“…Me too.”

Keith glanced over again.

Their eyes met.

That same fire from the gym hallway? Still there. Still simmering.

Keith cleared his throat and shifted into gear. “I made a playlist.”

“Oh god.”

“It’s not dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Keith smiled.

Lance reached over and pressed play.

The car pulled away from the curb.

The first notes of some sultry indie track drifted from the speakers.

And the city lights swallowed them whole.

The restaurant was cozy, dimly lit with warm amber lights casting soft shadows across the booth where Keith and Lance slid in side by side. Keith’s fingers drummed lightly on the table, but his eyes never left Lance’s face, which was already flushed from the drive—and maybe a little from nerves.

Lance tapped the menu distractedly, glancing up at Keith now and then with a crooked smile. “You totally don’t have to order for me, you know.”

Keith’s smirk was slow and deliberate. “You looked indecisive enough to need a life coach.”

Lance rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. “Fine. But if you order something weird, I’m blaming you.”

Keith leaned back, watching Lance tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “No weird stuff. Just what I like. You can thank me later.”

As the waiter came, Keith was smooth, confident, charming—the kind of guy who could order a steak and make it sound like poetry. Lance watched him with a mix of admiration and something softer, something that made his heart skip a beat.

When their food arrived, Keith reached across and brushed a crumb from Lance’s lip, fingers lingering longer than necessary. Lance’s breath hitched, eyes flickering to Keith’s, who was already watching him like he was the only person in the room.

The teasing came next, of course.

“Slow down,” Lance murmured as Keith reached for the fries.

“What? I gotta keep my energy up to carry you out of here later.”

Lance laughed, low and genuine. “Big talk for someone who can’t even finish a yoga class without collapsing.”

Keith’s grin was wicked. “I’ll have you know, I’m a powerhouse.”

“Sure you are, mullet.”

Their hands bumped, fingers brushing, and neither pulled away.

In that quiet, crowded restaurant booth, with laughter and soft music wrapping around them, something unspoken bloomed—something warm and honest beneath all the playful jabs.

Keith caught Lance’s gaze again and let his smile soften just a little.

Maybe this was the start of something real.

******************

The night air was cool and crisp, a gentle contrast to the warmth of the restaurant. Keith and Lance stepped out onto the quiet sidewalk, their breath visible in soft clouds as they fell into an easy rhythm side by side.

Keith’s hand brushed Lance’s almost accidentally at first, then he hesitated—caught the way Lance’s eyes flicked toward his fingers, the faintest spark of something unspoken. Without thinking, Keith let their hands meet, fingers intertwining naturally.

Lance didn’t pull away.

Instead, his lips curved into that soft, secret smile Keith was quickly learning to crave.

They walked for blocks under the amber glow of streetlights, the city humming softly around them but fading into the background. The conversation was light—little jokes, stories about gym mishaps, Lance’s latest yoga class disasters—but beneath the surface, Keith’s mind was racing.

He’s here. Right beside me. He wants this. Maybe he wants me.

Keith swallowed hard, fighting the familiar surge of doubt. But Lance’s warm grip on his hand steadied him, grounding him in a way no workout ever had.

At a small park bench, Lance paused and turned, eyes bright in the moonlight. “So… what happens now, boss?”

Keith chuckled softly. “Now? Now I don’t let you go.”

Lance laughed, a little breathless, and leaned in close. The scent of his shampoo, that soft hint of mint and something uniquely Lance, filled Keith’s senses.

Their faces hovered inches apart, hearts pounding loud enough to drown out the city.

“Maybe we should make this official,” Lance whispered.

Keith’s answer was a slow, deliberate kiss that promised exactly that.

When they finally pulled apart, Keith smiled wider than he had in weeks.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s make it official.”

The night air was cool as Keith pulled the car up to Lance’s building. The glow of streetlights shimmered softly on the hood, painting everything in a warm, golden haze.

The date had gone better than Keith ever dared hope. There had been laughter that made his chest ache, quiet moments filled with lingering glances, and teasing touches that sent sparks shooting down his spine. He could still feel the warmth of Lance’s hand in his, the way his smile had lit up the whole evening.

Now, as he turned off the engine, Keith reached over and brushed a loose curl back from Lance’s forehead.

“So,” Keith said, voice low and steady, “this is your stop.”

Lance’s eyes met his, bright and full of something Keith wasn’t ready to name yet.

“Yeah,” Lance whispered. Then, without warning, he leaned in and pulled Keith close.

Their lips met in a kiss that was slow at first — testing the waters — then deeper, hungrier, like they’d both been holding back for too long.

Keith’s hands slid around Lance’s waist, pulling him closer, feeling the heat radiate through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Before either of them fully registered what was happening, Lance shifted, straddling Keith’s lap, fingers tangling in his hair as they kissed with reckless abandon.

The car suddenly felt like the most private place on earth.

Keith’s heart pounded wildly as their breaths mingled, lips and hands exploring, the world outside fading into silence.

When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, Lance rested his forehead against Keith’s, eyes half-lidded with a shy smile.

“I guess this is our first make-up session as a couple,” Lance teased softly.

Keith chuckled, voice husky. “Definitely not the last.”

The night stretched before them, full of promise and endless possibilities.

The gym was buzzing with the usual afternoon crowd — weights clanking, treadmills humming, and trainers calling out encouragement. But Shiro and Hunk were watching something a little different today.

Keith and Lance.

Or, more accurately, Keith and Lance flirting like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Shiro wiped sweat from his brow as he glanced toward the yoga studio. Lance was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Keith finish a set of deadlifts.

Keith caught Lance’s gaze and flashed him a slow, smirky grin that made Lance’s cheeks flush a soft pink.

Shiro nudged Hunk. “Do you see what I see?”

Hunk, who was loading plates onto the bench press, nodded slowly, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah. That’s not subtle at all.”

Shiro chuckled. “Seriously, they’re basically broadcasting it.”

They watched as Lance sauntered over after Keith racked his weights, reaching out to wipe a bead of sweat from Keith’s temple. Keith shivered slightly under the touch, and Lance grinned like he’d just won a prize.

Hunk leaned in. “It’s like they’re trying to out-flirt each other.”

Shiro shook his head, laughing softly. “It’s nice to see Keith this happy.”

Hunk nodded. “Yeah, and Lance… he’s like a whole different person around Keith. More relaxed, more… himself.”

Shiro folded his arms. “You think they’ll actually say something soon?”

Hunk shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Knowing Keith? Eventually. But for now, I’m just enjoying the show.”

Keith caught sight of Shiro and Hunk watching and threw them a mock glare that barely hid his smile.

Lance winked at Keith and whispered, “Guess we’re not as subtle as we thought.”

Keith smirked back. “Good. I don’t want to be.”

The soft glow of Lance’s living room lamp cast gentle shadows across the room as Keith and Lance lounged on the couch, feet tangled, laughter fading into comfortable silence. Music played quietly in the background—nothing distracting, just the right kind of calm.

Keith traced idle patterns on Lance’s arm but couldn’t shake the tight knot in his chest.

After a moment, he cleared his throat, voice quieter than usual.

“Lance... can I ask you something?”

Lance turned, curious, eyes warm and open.

“Did you only start liking me because I lost weight? Because I got muscles?”

Keith hated how vulnerable he sounded, hated the doubt creeping in like a shadow.

Lance blinked, then smiled softly, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Keith’s ear.

“No,” Lance said firmly. “I liked you long before any of that.”

Keith’s brow furrowed.

Lance sighed, voice gentle but steady.

“I liked you because of who you are. Not how you look.”

He squeezed Keith’s hand.

“I liked the quiet way you watched the world, the way you used to bring me flowers everyday, the way you never gave up—even when you felt like it was easier to just walk away.”

Keith swallowed, feeling the knot loosen just a bit.

“Muscles and all that? Yeah, it’s nice. But it’s just the cherry on top. You’re still you. Still the same Keith I wanted from day one.”

Keith’s eyes shimmered with something raw—gratitude, relief, maybe a little hope.

Lance leaned in, voice low.

“And you? You’re more than enough. Always have been.”

Keith smiled, heart lighter than it’d been in days.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered.

Lance kissed him gently, the kind of kiss that promises you’re not alone.

And for the first time in a long time, Keith believed it.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Keith and Lance sat side by side in the quiet corner of the gym’s lounge, their fingers intertwined beneath the table. The familiar buzz of the gym faded into background noise as Keith took a deep breath.

“We can’t keep hiding,” he said softly, eyes fixed on their joined hands.

Lance nodded, biting his lip. “Yeah. Shiro and Hunk have definitely noticed. They deserve to know.”

Keith’s jaw tightened. “You think they’ll be cool with it?”

Lance shrugged, a small, confident smile tugging at his lips. “If anyone’s gonna freak, it won’t be them. But honestly? I’m kinda ready to stop sneaking around.”

Keith chuckled nervously. “Me too.”

They stood and walked out onto the gym floor, where Shiro was spotting a client and Hunk was rearranging weights nearby.

Lance cleared his throat. “Hey, guys, can we talk for a second?”

Shiro glanced over, smiling. “Sure, what’s up?”

Keith swallowed hard. “There’s something we want to tell you.”

Hunk raised an eyebrow, a knowing grin creeping onto his face.

Lance gave Keith’s hand a reassuring squeeze before speaking. “We’re together.”

There it was. Simple, honest, real.

Shiro’s smile widened. “About time.”

Hunk laughed, clapping Keith on the back. “Finally! You two were about as subtle as a neon sign.”

Keith blushed, but Lance laughed. “Yeah, I think the whole gym knew before we did.”

Shiro winked. “Welcome to the family, guys.”

Keith felt the tight knot in his chest unravel completely. This was home. This was real.

Lance leaned in, whispering, “No more secrets.”

Keith smiled, heart full. “No more secrets.”

The yoga studio was bathed in late afternoon light, golden rays casting warm patterns on the floor as soft instrumental music played overhead. Lance stood at the front of the class, all calm poise and liquid grace, leading a dozen students through their vinyasa flow like he was born to do it.

Keith had only wandered in to drop off his Lance's thermos—not to stare, absolutely not.
He told himself it would take thirty seconds.

But then Lance bent forward into a perfect downward dog.
And then he rolled up with his arms stretching overhead, shirt riding up just enough to flash skin.
And then he tipped into a low lunge, slow, controlled, that curve of his waistline peeking over his waistband, curls bouncing, voice calm and sweet as he spoke to the class.

Keith froze halfway through unscrewing his thermos lid. His mouth went dry.

And then—
CLATTER.

His thermos slipped from his hand, hit the floor with a dramatic metallic thud, and rolled right into the studio.

All heads turned.

Lance’s voice faltered mid-instruction.

Keith just stood there, wide-eyed, frozen like a raccoon caught in gym headlights.

Pidge, who had been nearby adjusting the thermostat, whipped around with a slow grin forming like a storm on the horizon.

“Well well well,” she said, eyes lighting up like Christmas morning. “Would you look at that.”

Keith muttered something that might’ve been a curse in a long-dead language and scrambled to grab the thermos, avoiding everyone’s eyes—especially Lance’s, who was absolutely smirking now.

“Oh no no no,” Pidge continued, following him like a bloodhound. “Don’t think you’re escaping this, mister.”

“Shut it, Pidge,” Keith said flatly.

“Nah,” Pidge deadpanned.

Keith shot her a withering glare.

Pidge just grinned wider. “This is going in the group chat.”

Lance, still in front of his class, was biting his lip like he was seconds from full-on laughter. He caught Keith’s eye and gave him a wink so subtle, no one else would’ve noticed.

Keith noticed.

Keith was suffering.

Pidge leaned closer. “You need holy water. Or a cold shower. Or a blindfold.”

“I need you to not talk,” Keith grumbled, red-faced, thermos now firmly clutched in his hands.

She patted his arm. “Awww, he’s in love. And lust. Mostly lust. But some love.”

Lance had just finished his class — muscles warm, skin glowing, curls slightly damp at the edges from sweat — and he felt good. The students had been responsive, the energy had flowed perfectly, and he’d even gotten a genuine namaste out of that one guy who usually just grunted and left early.

But now?

Now he was on a mission.

Find Keith. Kiss Keith. Possibly bully Keith for being cute.

He weaved through the gym with practiced ease, waving at familiar faces, dodging sweaty bros, scanning the room for a flash of black or the glint of silver chains.

And then he spotted him.

Keith. At the lat pulldown machine. Arms flexed, jaw clenched, hair damp with sweat. He was in one of his fitted sleeveless shirts, the kind that showed off his carved biceps and the tattoos peeking from his shoulder. Focused. Brooding.

And currently being chatted up by a girl with perfect eyeliner and a high ponytail.

Lance’s eyes narrowed.

She leaned closer, said something that made her laugh — her hand brushed Keith’s arm.

Keith, oblivious, just gave her a confused nod and kept pulling his reps.

Oh, hell no.

Lance didn’t hesitate.

He strutted over — smooth, graceful, and dangerous — and without saying a word, he slid right between them and plopped himself straight into Keith’s lap.

Keith choked on air.

“L-Lance?!”

“Hey, babe,” Lance said sweetly, wrapping an arm around Keith’s shoulders and resting his head against his cheek. “Missed me.”

Keith was frozen. Completely thrown. His hands hovered awkwardly midair, still gripping the bar.

The girl blinked. “Oh. Um.”

Lance smiled with all his teeth. “Hi! I’m his boyfriend. You were saying something?”

Her eyes went wide. “Oh—! No, I—just asked about his form—”

“He’s got great form,” Lance said, tone sugary with just a sprinkle of murder.

She nodded too quickly. “Yeah, I can see that. Okay. Bye!”

She practically power-walked away.

Keith was still trying to reboot his brain.

“Lance,” he muttered, cheeks pink, voice low. “What was that.”

Lance turned to face him fully, now comfortably straddling his thighs, arms still around his neck. “That was me,” he said, “protecting what’s mine.”

Keith blinked. “You think I was gonna flirt back?”

“No,” Lance said honestly. “I just think you’re hot and people have eyes. And I get to sit on your lap.”

Keith groaned, half embarrassed, half delighted.

Lance leaned in, whispering into his ear.

“You’re really hot when you’re confused.”

Keith groaned again. “You’re evil.”

Lance kissed the corner of his mouth. “And yours.”

Keith was still sitting at the lat pulldown machine, hands limp at his sides, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Lance had just walked off — sauntered off — hips swaying like he knew exactly what he’d just done, throwing a wink over his shoulder like he hadn’t just singlehandedly set Keith on fire.

Keith’s jaw was slack. His soul had flatlined. His entire thought process had collapsed into a single, vibrating line of static.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then heard a low whistle.

Shiro.

“Damn,” Shiro said, crossing his arms as he watched Lance disappear around the corner. “Talk about possessive. That was bold.”

Keith didn’t even look at him. Just muttered under his breath, voice flat, raw, certain:

“I wanna eat him.”

Shiro choked.

“What?”

But Keith was already getting up. Calm. Silent. Predatory.

He didn’t rush. Just walked — that slow, purposeful stride that made people step aside — eyes locked on where Lance had gone like he was laser-guided.

Shiro stared after him, stunned.

And then he smiled.

Because for the first time in years, Keith looked... whole. Not just strong. Not just healed. But like he’d found someone who matched his storm for storm.

Lance was halfway to the locker rooms, tugging at his tank top, still grinning to himself when he heard boots behind him.

He turned just in time to see Keith step into view — dark-eyed, jaw set, walking like a promise.

Lance’s heart skipped.

“Wha—Keith—?”

Keith didn’t answer. He just grabbed Lance’s wrist and gently but firmly guided him backward, through the doorway and straight into the empty locker room.

“Keith—!” Lance squeaked, stumbling back as he was pinned to the cool metal of the lockers.

Keith leaned in, breath warm against Lance’s neck.

“You think it’s cute to tease me like that?” he murmured.

Lance swallowed, face burning. “I mean—yes?”

Keith growled, low in his throat. “You’re evil.”

Lance giggled, already breathless. “You like it.”

Keith kissed him like he had a point to prove.

***********************

BONUS SCENE:

Back on the gym floor, Shiro shook his head and pulled out his phone.

Group chat: 🧘🔥

Shiro:
“They’re finally feral. Let them have their moment. No one go near the locker room for like… twenty minutes.”

Hunk:

“Oh god. Should we burn it after?”

Pidge:

“No. We disinfect and then we mock them forever.”