Chapter Text
The air in the 24/7 gym at 1:17 AM was a specific kind of sterile, chilled, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and rubber. For William Jakrapatr Kaewpanpong, it was perfect. The cavernous room was nearly empty, the only sounds the low hum of climate control, the rhythmic thump of his own playlist in his ears, and the distant, methodical clank of weights from the far corner. This was his time. The world was asleep, and the oppressive, judgmental gaze of the daytime gym crowd was absent.
He was here out of necessity, not passion. As the frontman for Broccoli, a band that hovered in that frustrating space between underground darlings and mainstream recognition, his days were a chaotic jumble of rehearsals, scrappy gigs at indie bars, and long, fruitless hours in their makeshift studio. The night was when his mind finally quieted enough for song lyrics to bleed through the static, and with them, a gnawing guilt about neglecting everything else—including his body.
He wasn’t unconfident in his face; he knew his sharp features and expressive eyes worked well under stage lights. But his body felt like an unfinished project, a instrument he hadn't quite learned to play. Slender, with a runner's build that hid a surprising strength, he felt perpetually underwhelming compared to the sculpted giants he saw on social media.
Tonight, the population of this private gym was three. Two guys were half-heartedly taking selfies by the dumbbell rack, more focused on their angles than their form. And then there was Him.
William had seen him before, a handful of times, always during these witching-hour sessions. He was a constant, a fixture as reliable as the machines themselves. He was the reason William sometimes fumbled his reps, his focus snagged on the man's effortless grace and obvious proficiency. He wasn't just working out; he was executing a plan. Every movement was precise, intentional, powerful. Even in simple grey sweatpants and a black workout tank, the clothes seemed to drape on him differently, highlighting the defined sweep of his shoulders, the solid strength of his back, the lean muscle of his arms. He was the embodiment of everything William felt he wasn't: assured, capable, and utterly in command of his physical space.
Shaking his head to clear it, William moved to the bench press. He’d been working on increasing his weight, emboldened by the empty gym. Usually, a bored coach or a fellow night-owl would be around to spot him, but tonight the staff area was dark. The two selfie guys were engrossed in their phones, and He was fully absorbed in his own routine, wireless earphones sealing him in a private world.
It’s fine, William told himself, loading the bar with a weight that felt ambitious but not impossible. You’ve got this.
He lay back on the bench, the cool vinyl a shock against his skin. He gripped the bar, took a steadying breath, and lifted it off the rack. The first three reps were tough but clean, his arms trembling only slightly. On the fourth descent, halfway down, he knew he’d misjudged. The weight suddenly felt like a mountain of iron. He pushed, his muscles screaming in protest, but the bar stalled, immovable, a few inches above his chest. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He tried to heave it up again, a grunt escaping his lips, but it was useless. The bar began to descend, slowly, inexorably, crushing the air from his lungs.
This was it. This was how he’d go out. Not on stage, but alone under a barbell at a silent gym, found by the cleaning crew. The absurdity of it almost made him laugh, but the lack of oxygen made it a choked gasp.
And then, a miracle.
A pair of strong, capable hands closed around the bar. With an ease that was almost insulting, the weight was lifted from his chest and guided smoothly back onto the rack.
William sucked in a ragged, grateful breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He sat up quickly, his head spinning slightly, and turned to see his savior.
It was Him. Up close, he was even more striking. His face was sharp and intelligent, beads of sweat dotting his temples. He pulled one wireless earbud out, and William realized his own music had cut out—his earphones had chosen that exact moment to die, allowing him to hear the desperate strain of his own efforts.
“Thanks,” William breathed out, the word shaky. “Phi… thank you. I… I thought that was it for me.”
The man’s expression was neutral, not annoyed, not overly concerned, just… present. “You should always have a spotter with that weight,” he said, his voice a calm, low baritone that suited his frame perfectly. “Especially this late.”
“I know, I’m sorry. There was no one… I thought I could…” William trailed off, feeling incredibly foolish under the man’s steady gaze. An awkward silence descended, thick and heavy. William, desperate to break it, did the only thing his frazzled brain could think of. He thrust his hand out, a gesture too formal for the situation.
“I’m William,” he said, too loudly. “I’m 22.”
A flicker of something—amusement?—passed through the man’s dark eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched. He looked at the outstretched hand, then back at William’s earnest, slightly terrified face. Slowly, he reached out and took it. His grip was firm, his hand warm and slightly calloused.
“Est,” he replied, the single syllable sounding cool and smooth. “25.”
William realized he was still shaking Est’s hand and dropped it quickly, his cheeks heating. His brain, still scrambling for something, latched onto the first compliment it could find.
“Uhm, Phi… you’re… you’re really in good shape.” He immediately wanted to vanish into the floor. It sounded so lame, so blatant.
Est’s eyebrow quirked up. He looked down at his simple sweat-soaked tank top and pants, then back at William. “Thanks… I guess?” he said, a real smile now playing on his lips.
“Oh, wait, did that sound weird?” William rushed to correct himself, words tumbling over each other. “No, I just meant… I’ve seen you from before. You look like you know what you’re doing. Like, professional-level. It’s impressive.” He was digging the hole deeper, but he couldn’t stop.
Est’s smile widened into a full, genuine grin. It transformed his face, making him seem more approachable, warmer. “Oh,” he said, his tone lightly teasing. “So you were looking at me?”
William’s face flushed a deep, crimson red. “No! I mean, yes, but not like—not in a weird way! Just… gym… observation… you know…” He gestured vaguely, hopelessly.
Est let out a soft chuckle, the sound rich and pleasant. He decided to put the flustered young man out of his misery. “It’s fine. I know what you meant.” He looked William over, not with judgment, but with an appraising, almost coach-like eye. “You’re not a regular, are you? Your form’s not bad, but it’s… enthusiastic.”
“I’m a musician,” William explained, grateful for the shift in topic. “Singer. My schedule’s a mess. This is the only time I can consistently get in here. And… the ideas for songs come easier at night.”
“A singer,” Est repeated, nodding. “That makes sense.” He didn’t elaborate on what exactly it made sense of. “Well, William, 22, who goes too heavy without a spotter and writes songs at night… try a lower weight for the next set. Or,” he added, glancing around the empty gym, “find a spotter.”
An idea, brave and sudden, sparked in William’s mind. “Could I… I mean, would you…?” He gestured to the bench.
Est looked surprised for a moment, then thoughtful. He checked his watch—a sleek, expensive-looking fitness tracker. “I’m almost done with my routine. But sure. I can spot you for a few proper sets. It’s better than having to explain to management why there’s a singer-shaped dent in their bench press.”
The relief and excitement that washed over William were overwhelming. “Really? Thank you, Phi! Seriously.”
For the next twenty minutes, Est was a patient and surprisingly insightful guide. He corrected William’s grip slightly, reminded him to keep his core tight, and offered quiet words of encouragement. “Good. Now push. All the way. There you go.” His presence was steadying, not intimidating.
Between sets, they talked in short, breathless bursts. “So, professional?” William asked, admiring the easy way Est re-racked the weights for him. “Used to be,” Est said. “Swimmer. Now I just coach kids sometimes. And I have a clothing brand.” “That explains the… everything,” William said, gesturing to all of Est. Est laughed again. “And you? Broccoli, was it? I think I’ve heard the name.” “You have?” William’s eyes lit up. “We’re playing at the Common Ground next weekend, actually…” “Maybe I’ll check it out,” Est said, and it didn’t sound like an empty pleasantry.
When Est finally declared his own workout complete, William felt a pang of disappointment. The gym suddenly felt larger and emptier again.
“You good from here?” Est asked, wiping his face with a towel. “Yeah. Yeah, thank you, Phi Est. Really. You saved my life and my workout.” “Don’t mention it.” Est slid his earbud back in but paused before opening the glass door to leave. He turned back. “I’m usually here around this time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you ever need a spotter.”
It was an invitation. A thread, thin and new, connecting their solitary nighttime worlds. William smiled, a real, unforced one this time. “I might take you up on that.” Est gave a final nod, a silent see you around, and left.
William stood by the bench, the silence of the gym pressing in again, but it felt different now. It felt full of potential. He looked at the barbell, then at the door through which Est had disappeared. For the first time, he wasn't just looking forward to the solitude of his night workouts. He was looking forward to the possibility of company.