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The locker door closed quietly, accompanied by a small, nearly silent sigh. The young white stoat looked carefully around himself, grateful that he didn't see any of the faces that usually meant trouble, or at least moderate discomfort. He had thought about joining another gym, but there were no refunds on this place, and he still had a few months to go. Beyond that, he was feeling just stubborn enough to be pissed about the comments from the Peanut Gallery, and he was damned if he was just going to give up. He was in this for himself, not for other people's approval.

That didn't keep him from bristling his short white fur in uncomfortable anticipation.

This place wasn't part of that big chain of gyms that boasts “no judgment zones." Like most old-fashioned gyms, just about anywhere in the world, the very walls sat in judgment of any and all who dared to enter its doors much less attempt to use its equipment and facilities. Even if no one actually said anything, the feeling persisted that they would say something, if they had the slightest desire to. Of course, sometimes they did say something, perhaps under their breath, or with just a smirk at the little runt who couldn't even bench press his own weight, even one time. Wuss. Lightweight. Worse terms, if they were in just the wrong mood. In order to feel comfortable in a place like that, it was necessary to be already what they had somehow managed to become. Some would have you believe that they had always looked this good, and they were here just because they felt like showing off a little.

The small mustelid managed to let his breathing relax a little. At least the place didn't reek of testosterone or old unwashed gym clothes, like high school; whatever cleaning solution they used in this place, at least it covered or actually removed the worst of it. He adjusted his clothing and rose to leave the locker room. He'd learned that synthetics were actually better than cotton, at least in terms of not sticking to the fur; more freedom of movement was to be appreciated. Simple garb in a gym, as a rule – shorts and A-frame or t-shirt were the norm, except for the big buff boys who wore as little as possible, wanting to show off every muscle that they could, or a new design dyed or burned or tattooed into their fur. It was not a trait that the stoat shared with them.

He poked his nose out of the changing rooms, looking around at the various male furs scattered about this old-style gymnasium, realizing that he probably shared nothing at all with them. Most of these guys seemed to be trying to build themselves into Adonises, or failing that, into reasonable approximations of the Incredible Hulk. He would be happy simply to be able to walk, ride a bike, or play simple football with friends in someone's back yard without succumbing to being just plain tired.

You're not there to compare yourself to anyone, his friend had told him, trying to convince him to sign up for a while. Just pull yourself into your own cocoon; you're not there to make friends, just to get your own workout in. You can pretend that they're not even there.

Right. Sure. No problem.

The treadmills were easy enough for cardio, and no one usually bothered anyone else on those machines. They weren't used often, except by the whipcord-muscled runners like cheetahs and greyhounds, who took the devices well past the usual rates for most other furs. There weren't any such specimens there today, happily; truth told, he hated the predatory sound of pawsteps striking the belt with such ferocious speed, and the accompanying whine of the machinery hit notes that, frankly, went right through his skull and made his teeth itch. The down side to being the only one amid those machines was that he was painfully obvious, as if standing in an empty field with a “Kick Me" sign pasted on his back, sides, and front. It wouldn't have mattered even if his fur weren't white; it was his scrawniness that set him apart, and to put it bluntly, being here just plain hurt.

The young weasel did his best to focus on the numbers glowing a sickly green on the treadmill interface, counting time, kilojoules burned, and kilometers traveled, as if they were the most important things in his life. Just beyond, on a series of elliptical-based running machines, a lone female ocelot kept up a high pace, her forepaws managing to turn pages in a book once in a while, as specially-designed headphones played no-one-knew-what into her perfectly round ears. It amazed him that anyone could focus her eyes on words on a printed page or on a tablet while bouncing at such speeds. For him, at least, reading was out of the question. He'd thought about playing music on his phone, but the disconnect between the rhythm of the music and the pounding of his paws would have thrown off his stride. Talking books, maybe. Audiobooks for classic works could be had for fairly cheap, and if his phone were modern enough to run the app, it would at least help him have a cocoon. No one's going to bother you if you're exploring an old curiosity shop, or serving aboard the Pequod.

That, he thought sadly, was something else that he probably didn't share with the denizens of this mausoleum.

The treadmill slowed and stopped at the end of its programmed time. It had been enough to get the stoat's heart pumping and, although he still broke a light, healthy sweat, he didn't get out of breath as badly today as he had when he had started, a few months ago. On the one paw, that was probably less cardio than recommended; on t'other paw, he had made progress enough that he didn't get dizzy or overly winded from basic exercise anymore. It didn't feel like much in the way of progress, but it was about the best he could do, psychologically. Just getting up the nerve to visit here a few times per week was more than he had expected of himself.

Properly warmed up, he looked over at the Nautilus-style weight machines. They were designed to be used safely, without the need for a spotter. Naturally, they filled up first, for exactly that reason. Each to his own cocoon, the weasel figured, despite the fact that many of these furs actually had gym buddies to spot for them. He padded slowly to the side of the free-weights area and found some dumbbells that he could use for upper arm exercises, without needing a spotter. He hoped he would get to do some bench presses afterward; even with the low amount of weight he was lifting, that would require either that a space opened at the automatic machines, or finding a spotter.

He sat on a bench, dumbbell in paw, did his best to make himself even smaller than he already was. Glancing further down the rows of free weights and machines, he caught a glimpse of the imposing slab of lion that would have been difficult to miss in any situation. Quite apart from being incredibly toned, seeming to be as broad as he was tall, his fur was an astonishing shade of smoky blue, set off handsomely by a deep indigo mane, thickly-furred indigo tail tip, and several ornate markings, also of that same near-black blue, that appeared to be natural rather than applied as ornamentation. He seemed to be the one non-judgmental furson in the whole place. He'd even spotted for the stoat a few times, and he had nothing to say other than to note form and be encouraging. The little mustelid wasn't sure he had the courage to go ask the lion for help, but he could at least think about it.

For now, he reviewed what he wanted to do for his workout. Upper body today; day after tomorrow, lower body. He'd created a simple, short regimen, basing his workout on the idea of stamina and a modicum of simple toning, to be better at throwing and kicking, catching and running, things that would make picnic-ground games easier and more fun to participate in. The dumbbell was for biceps and triceps curls — the simplest arm-building exercises. He started with the biceps reps, concentrating on good form, taking them slowly. He'd worked his way up to a set of 25 reps on the right arm, then 25 on the left, then one more set for each. It had taken him a while to get to this point, even with the lighter dumbbell weight. It was the reps that were important for him. It was his own form of a rosary, perhaps, and he counted each bead carefully.

He paused for only a minute or so, sensing more than hearing a slowly growing commentary from the big Rottweiler nearby, chortling quietly with his buddies. That was exactly what he didn't need. The stoat's ears weren't as large as some, but they worked all too well. He kept his chin down and his eyes closed as he began his triceps curls, using his left arm to steady his right, keeping his right elbow pointed toward the ceiling, the weight behind him, raising it up slowly to straighten out the arm as far as he could, then back down again. His triceps were weaker than his biceps — true for most furs, it would seem — so he only did 15 of these before switching arms.

“I guess five keys is all a fag can lift, huh?"

Focusing on his breathing and his form, the stoat did his best to ignore this louder comment from the big Rottweiler nearby, as well as the rough chuckles from his little band of muscle-brained jerks. He tried not to defend his thoughts with the idea that all three of the barely-clad dogs had been high school jocks who barely got through their four years with a D-minus-minus, tossed out more than graduated. The Rottie was the leader of this little pack, with the Doberman and the golden Labrador along for whatever ride was being offered. Maybe they were really good fursons, in other situations; for all the stoat knew, they volunteered at soup kitchens on their weekends off. Here… Even though the gymnasium management didn't much care for altercations, and they did what they could to stop this sort of thing, they couldn't stop what they didn't see. He had finished the first set for both arms, went back for his second set on the right, staying focused, making his own cocoon smaller.

“Prolly practicing to be able to open a car door on his own instead of having his boyfriend do it for him," the Rotty shot off again, to a slight increase in the amusement of his audience.

…seven… eight… nine… focus on the form…

The young stoat felt his heart beginning to race, not from the exercise as from the sensation of the big Rottie moving around to his left. The other two seemed happy to let their Fearless Leader take charge of the afternoon's entertainment, but it felt as crowded, as if all three of them had surrounded him. The stink from the big dog's sweat could have been considered assault, in some places. He didn't have any idea what to do other than to just keep on with his routine, hoping that ignoring the idiot would make him go away. He didn't think that would work, but hope is free, and sometimes, all you can hang on to.

“You got a brand new purse, to match a new outfit, and you gotta get stronger to carry everything in it, that it?"

Snorts from the Peanut Gallery. …eleven… twelve…

“No, wait, I know what it is. You're making your arms stronger so you can be dangled from the ceiling like raw meat, right? You fags are into the whole bondage thing. You must be really dedicated to your Master."

…fourteen… fifteen. Okay, change paws…

Sudden movement, shuffling, a sharp, loud, startled sound. The stoat blinked, forced to look toward the noise. “Hey!" the Rottweiler all but shouted. ““Hey, did you see that, guys? He tried to hit me with that dumbbell. He tried to attack me!"

It took the stoat a few stuttering tries before he was finally able to cough out, “No! No, I wasn't, I was just changing paws, reps for the other side, I was just—"

His words were being drowned out by disapproving sounds from the Dobie and the Lab, with the Rottie taking on a look of combined rage and satisfaction.

“Oh, faggot," the big dog growled, “you need to be taught a lesson." He flexed both arms, bunching his paws into fists, finally raising his right and hauling it up and backward.

In the next split-second, the large fist was quite literally enveloped by an even larger forepaw, one covered in smooth fur of smoky blue.

“Perhaps you're not a qualified teacher."

The deep, soft voice, seeming to be barely above a whisper yet heard clearly by all in the immediate vicinity, came from the great cerulean-furred lion that the stoat had seen earlier. He stood a goodly amount above two full meters tall, his broad chest barely contained in a shirt that seemed painted onto his rippling musculature, and although his shorts seemed loose enough to allow proper movement, they also seemed to be no less filled by his powerful thighs. His full, lush indigo mane framed a calm face, eyes of a deep antique gold that seemed to have frozen the Dobie and the Lab in their places. The Rottweiler had tried a few times to reclaim his forepaw before finally realizing that — as the science fiction catch-phrase had it — resistance was futile.

“The boxing ring is over there," the lion said softly, jutting his chin a few centimeters in the direction of the front of the gym. “Were you looking for a sparring partner?"

“Lay off, Leo," the dog said. “I was just tryin' to teach this little faggot some manners."

The big cat's brows came together in innocent confusion. “Did this fellow proposition you?"

“What? Hell, no! He wouldn't have the balls."

“Do you want to proposition him?"

The dog's eyes flew open. “Oh, FUCK no!" He tried to pull away again and, failing, grimaced slightly. It would seem that the smoky blue-furred forepaw was holding quite firmly and, if the stoat were correct, being pushed downward toward the floor in a way that was likely putting torque on the Rottie's shoulder.

His tongue tsking a bit against his teeth, the huge lion frowned. “Now, now… we're not in Australia. The gym is trying to get us to tone down our language a bit. Let me see if I have a clear grasp on this situation. You have no sexual interest in this fine young fur, is that right?"

The dog seemed about to release another epithet when an expression of pain ran across his face. His body had folded a few centimeters closer to the floor, even as he managed to whimper a soft, “No."

“And in fact, he hasn't really said anything at all to you today, has he?"

After a few seconds of considering other answers, the Rottweiler grunted, “No."

“Did you want to spot for him, or do some sparring, or just plain make friends?"

Another pause, followed by his body folding yet closer toward the gym floor. This “NO" came out as a desperate whimper.

“I just don't understand why you're over here bothering him. He looks so shy; maybe he just doesn't know what to say to a more experienced gym enthusiast like yourself. He looks at you and simply can't understand how to react. So here, let me help you break the ice. Why don't you bid the nice lad a fond goodbye?"

A grunting whisper: “Goodbye…"

With that, the lion released the dog's forepaw as casually as if he had tossed an empty coffee container into the trash. The stoat could have sworn that he's heard a sharp crack just before he did so, but that was probably his imagination. For his own part, the Rottie tried hard not to drop to his knees, instead managing, just barely, to return to his little group of friends, none of whom seemed anxious to take up the fight. Holding his right wrist with his left forepaw, the dog worked to make the fingers of his fist release their clench.

“Looks to me like you've got quite a painful spasm there," the lion said casually. “I'd recommend some hot water therapy — maybe the spa upstairs? I'm sure it'll take care of itself by morning. You really ought to warm up better, do some stretching and such. It'll save you a lot of pain later if you make the right moves first."

The vanquished dog and his cronies moved away, one or two muttering, but very quietly. When they were gone, the lion looked back at the young stoat and smiled gently down at him. The stoat, for his part, could only sit and stare upward, the dumbbell hanging limply from his paw.

“Are you okay?" the lion asked softly.

The stoat swallowed, still staring. “I think so."

“You won't be, if you get a crick in your neck." The grin broadening somewhat, the big cat seemed to fold himself up like a magic trick and land without a sound on the mat near to the bench, sitting cross-legged, continuing his benevolent gaze. “I've spotted for you before, but we've never really met. You have a name, I hope?"

“Call me Ishmael," the young mustelid managed.

The lion seemed to consider the idea for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah," he said softly. “Definitely not Ahab, either. I figure Starbuck, or maybe Queequeg. Not Pip, though; that would just be cruel to yourself. So are you a Quaker, or the son of a cannibal chieftain?"

The stoat felt his eyes widen. “You've read Moby Dick ?"

“More like 'struggled through'." The muscled feline's laugh was as gentle as his voice, warm and welcoming. “In school, I cheated with SparkNotes; later, I used them as a guide as I actually pushed my way through the blasted thing. It's a helluva story, but it's tough on the common vocabulary, not to mention the modern short-term attention span." He smiled again. “Yes, I exercise my brain, too."

“I'm sorry." The white weasel ducked his head a little, embarrassed. “I just don't expect that around here."

“With good reason, sadly." Leaning forward just a little, the lion asked again. “So if not Ishmael, what shall I call you?"

Shall, the mustelid noted. The cat knew his English well. Taking the chance, he extended his unencumbered right forepaw. “My name is Aaron."

The cerulean-furred lion clasped the paw firmly and gently. “I'm Aleksandr Marseyavich Pyotr-Pavel Mashchenko."

Aaron just stared.

“How about Alek?"

“At least I can remember that." He shook the giant forepaw carefully, then found his own paw returned to him in excellent condition. “Thank you, Alek."

“You're quite welcome. I hate seeing anyone treated like that." He shook his head, his mane dancing gently about his face. “Did you finish your triceps reps?"

“Umm…" The stoat swallowed. “No."

“Remember where you were?"

“Yeah, just one more set on the left arm…" He put himself into the proper position, making sure that the dumbbell wasn't anywhere near the lion's face, just to avoid any possible repeat of the earlier unpleasantness. Alek didn't move at all, as if confident that there was no danger even of an accident. Aaron worked slowly back into the rhythm, counting mentally, able to focus on his purpose for being there.

“Good form." Alek nodded gently. “I know you've been at this a few months. I think it's paying off; your muscles are showing good definition."

“Thank you. You must have been doing this stuff all your life."

The lion snorted amiably. “Started early and just didn't know how stop. It's more maintenance than improvement, at this point; I think I've got about as much musculature as I need."

“I'd say so. You look great." Aaron finished his last extension, then realized what he'd said. “Not that I'm… I mean…" He set the dumbbell down carefully, afraid to move. “I didn't want you to think…"

The great lion leaned forward just a bit conspiratorially, the smile on his face not wavering for a moment. “It's okay, Aaron," he said softly. “I'll go first. Yes, I'm gay, but I'm not predatory. You're safe with me. I'd seen those guys trying to make you their personal entertainment, and frankly, I'd had enough of it. I hope I helped."

“You're… gay?"

“Would it be better if I pranced around a little? I don't usually, but if it'll make a better impression…"

Aaron looked away, embarrassed. “Oh God, I'm sorry, I…" He put his forepaws over his face, his embarrassment feeling even worse. “I'm an idiot. I'm acting as bad as they did, being such a…"

He felt a very large, very gentle forepaw to his shoulder. When he finally dared to take his own paws away from his face, he was looking into the most beautifully understanding pair of eyes he had ever seen. “You're not an idiot. And you're certainly nowhere near as bad as that band of fake machismo." He paused, his question spoken quietly. “You're not gay, are you?"

Swallowing, the weasel answered, “No. I'm not gay."

The lion's whiskers curled upward toward the ceiling, those antique gold eyes seeming to laugh of their own accord. “I thought not. That's what made me so angry with those guys. Stereotypes and all. I wonder if they think I'm gay."

“I didn't think so." Aaron paused, blushed. “I mean, I don't really much wonder who's gay and who's not. No one around here has ever tried to fondle me or anything." He paused again. “I'm sorry, Alek. I haven't met anyone who's gay. Or as they say, I probably just don't know that I have. So I probably still seem like an idiot."

“Idiots don't read Moby Dick, and that include gay guys who think it's about something else entirely. Besides, you're still talking to me, so I guess there's hope for you yet." The lion chuckled. “I'm teasing, Aaron, and I'll knock it off. Look, I'm still happy to spot for you if you'd like. And I'd understand if you'd rather not have me around. I don't broadcast my sexuality, and I don't hide it either. If they find out I'm gay, you might get branded by association."

“The only reason that I'd care is if they still want to use me for a punching bag." The stoat finally managed a smile. “I wasn't bothered that they called me a fag; I'm just allergic to getting beaten up. It leaves all these big welts and bruises on me, and antihistamine just doesn't help."

Alek laughed gently. “You're more cool than you give yourself credit for, kid." He looked back over his shoulder. “The machines look booked for the moment. Want a spotter?"

“What about your own routine?"

“I've done enough of that for today. Bench presses?"

Aaron grinned. “Bench presses."

Together, they moved over to an available bench a readied a bar. “How much shall we put on?"

“Forty kilos."

Pausing at the display of plates, the lion turned with an eyebrow raised. “Forty?"

“Sure. No problem."

“What were you pressing last week?"

Aaron felt his ears flatten. “Thirty," he admitted.

“Was that higher than the week before?" When the stoat didn't answer, Alek suggested, “Twenty-five?"

The white weasel's cheeks felt hot as he nodded.

“Weight Lifting 101," the lion said, without a trace of malice. “Heavy weight is to tear down muscle, to create bulk; lighter weight, with more reps, is for toning what you have and creating stamina."

“I know," Aaron admitted softly, reaching for a 15kg weight plate for his own side as the lion grabbed one for his. He used both paws, and the stoat knew he could have probably juggled three weights that size.

“I was noticing your routine before," the big cat offered softly. “It's stamina you're looking for, not bulk, right?"

“Yeah." His tail flicked with mild irritation as he locked the weight down at its balance point as the lion did for the weight on the opposite side.

“I know what the problem is," Alek said. “You're just trying to impress me so I'll ask you out."

Aaron looked up sharply, then saw the grin on the cat's face, and he laughed. “Egad! You've twigged to my cunning plan!"

“As cunning as a fox who's just been appointed Professor of Cunning at Oxford?" The lion pointed to the bench with a flourish. “Take your punishment like a good stoat!"

Still smiling, the mustelid settled himself onto the bench, surprising himself as he was able to take careful note of his position, remember his form, grip the bar properly, lift up and away, and get through a set of 25 reps smoothly. He replaced the bar to its position, then noticed that the lion had squatted down in order to see him more closely.

“Good, smooth form," Alek approved softly. “How do you arms feel?"

“I'm good," he nodded. “Just enough out of breath to let me know I've done the work, but not so sore I wouldn't be able to lift my water bottle." Seeing the lion glance around, he pointed toward the bench where he'd been only minutes before. He sat up as his spotter retrieved the bottle and held it out for him. “And before you say anything, yes, I know — just a sip!"

“You haven't lived until you have a hard workout, chugged half a bottle of water, then projectile puked a few minutes later."

The stoat stared. “You didn't."

“In high school, no less. Great for the ego."

“I'll consider myself properly educated!" Aaron set the bottle down and got back into position. “Sipping is a good thing."

“Always. Okay, 25 more?"

“Let's do it."

“Ooo, thought you'd never ask."

The weasel snorted, shook his head, and got back to work. The second set went as well as the first, ending with him being a bit more puffed and definitely more sweaty than before. The whole time, the lion stood patiently, watching for any sign of trouble, listening for the slightest request for help, and none came. Aaron racked the bar without any need for assistance and grinned at his spotter. “Hey, Alek… thanks for doing this for me. This weight must seem like nothing at all to you."

“And that's not the point here. Right, Aaron?"

Sighing, the young mustelid smiled. “Right. You've got your regimen, I've got mine, and we're both working toward what we want."

“The sacred mantra for the gym. It's the only way to stay sane in these places. If you start comparing yourself to others, especially those who've been doing this a while, you'll get discouraged and not come back."

“Did that ever happen to you?"

“Oh, sure. Couple of times."

“What brought you back?"

The lion shook his head. “You don't want to know."

“Sure I do. Really."

“Well, there was this really hot-looking stallion…"

“I don't want to know."

“Told you!" Alek laughed. “Want to call it quits, or can you do one more set?" He raised one eyebrow, a gentle smirk on his lips. “No need to impress me."

“Not even for a date?" Aaron laughed, thought about it. “Let's see how far I can go. I promise not to try to go too far."

“I'm here for you, Aaron. Let's start with ten, see where you are."

The stoat positioned himself correctly, set his paws, and looked up into the lion's antique gold eyes once more. “Thanks for the help."

“At least I know you're not doing it to try to look up my shorts." He grinned once more. “Okay, no more jokes. C'mon. Go for it."

Aaron breathed evenly, took the bar off of its rest, and put his mind into the set. He found himself counting aloud after five, and the lion counted with him. He hit ten and kept going. “Little more," he puffed. “Eleven…"

Alek's right forepaw cradled the bar right in the center. “I've got you, Aaron. Aim for 15. I've got you…"

“Twelve…" He felt his muscles burning hot, trying to rebel, and he felt the need for just a little help. “Thirteen…"

“That's it, Aaron, you've got it, just two more…"

His muscles began to thrum like the violent tintinnabulation of a huge bell struck with an equally large hammer. He knew that Alek was helping, but he still had most of the weight on his own. “Fourteen…" He grit his teeth, taking one last large breath, holding it as he pushed up one last time, one more time for those big golden eyes, one last push just to make it…

“Fifteen," they said together.

The stoat gladly accepted the help to get the bar on its rack, let his arms fall to his side, gave in to the panting that helped pull oxygen into his body. Behind him, the lion sat on the floor and smiled at him with something like pride. In their own ways, they'd both built a bit of a sweat. Chuckling softly, Alek asked, “So… was it good for you?"

“Oh, baby," Aaron half-purred, “you're the best. You really polished me off."

“They all say that."

The weasel laughed. “Just for that, I'm going to make you stay outside while I shower."

“Oh, no!" Alek gesticulated dramatically. “No, please, it's what I live for! I'll scrub your back! I'll wash your tail! Please don't make me wait outside!"

“Well, if you're gonna be all drama queen about it…!" The still-panting weasel sat up and looked at the lion with a grin. “Am I turning gay yet?"

“It's only gay if you use my shampoo."

“Good thing I brought my own."

“Oh pooh." Alek tousled Aaron's headfur and grinned at him. “If I convert one more, I get a toaster oven."

“Saw that episode." The stoat paused, considering. “I'm not at all sure how to ask this question. It wants to come out something like, 'Are all gay men as cool as you are'…?"

“You're just lucky that way."

“Found the best first?"

“You got it."

“Any more like you at home?"

“The most amazing bear I've ever known in my life." The softness in the lion's voice made Aaron feel just a touch of envy; there was more love in those words than he'd ever heard from anyone, about anyone else. “And our neighbors are a wonderful couple, a bull and a lion, both of them even more buffed than I am. Would you like to come visit us sometime?"

“One thing at a time – let's see if we can shower together first."

The lion frowned slightly. “I'm sorry, Aaron; I'm presuming like hell. If that's a problem…"

The stoat considered, making sure of his feelings. If nothing else, he knew that Alek would want only the truth from him. “I don't think so. It's new, yeah, so I'm kind of adjusting my feelings here. Is that okay?"

“More than okay. At least you're not afraid you're going to catch the gay."

“Well, if I don't use your shampoo, and I don't drop the soap…"

Alek laughed. “You've been briefed on this subject somewhere."

“Only through bad jokes, and a guy I knew who was a submariner. You know — 150 guys go down, and six months later, 75 couples come up." He chuckled lamely, pausing. “I don't want to get maudlin, but I feel that I've got some things to learn. Clichés and stereotypes, all that crap to get rid of."

“You're doing pretty well. I'll give you one more stereotype, if you can stand it: The four of us love to play card and board games."

“Dixit?"

“An all-time favorite! Although my bear usually ends up winning. He's a clever sod, and I love him." The lion grinned a little. “Sorry, TMI?"

Aaron shook his head, smiling. “Actually, no. Makes you… I don't know, 'real' is the word that came to mind."

“I'll take that. Tell you what, Aaron: I'll be glad to spot for you, whenever you'd like. It helps to have a gym partner, to keep you motivated." The lion stood, waving toward the changing rooms. “Let's get a shower, then I'll find some grimy piece of paper that I probably should have thrown away weeks ago, scrawl a false name and my phone number on it, and you can pretend that I tried to pick you up."

“Seriously?"

“Or I could just hand you my business card."

“Better. Let's go take a shower, big boy."

Alek winked. “Don't forget your shampoo."

“Aww, you don't want a toaster oven?"

“Already got six."

The stoat managed a grin. “Okay, that's TMI."