Dear Diary,
The bathroom mirror steamed up fast. I scrubbed at the fog, but my own reflection stared back, a bit blurry, a bit too serious. Brown hair, messy as usual, and those damn blue eyes that always look like they’re judging me. I flexed my bicep, just a quick one, checking progress. It’s solid. Thanks, Noel.
I turned the hot tap on, steam rising to obscure my reflection. A bath. Yes, a bath would be good. I’d been looking ahead to this all day after a tough workout. But as I waited for the tub to fill, a silly grin spread across my face. It’s this feeling that is different, it’s warm and tingly. My own damn fitness instructor, Noel. It shouldn’t be possible, right? He’s just… Noel. All easy smiles and encouraging words, the way his muscles flex as he demonstrates a new routine. And that laugh, Jesus that laugh. I feel my cheeks flush.
Beefcake Model Danny Diary
It wasn’t just the gym today, it was every session. I found myself looking for his eyes, anticipating his praise, hoping for a moment alone, just me and him. This is ridiculous. I’m 26, from Austin not 16 from some teen movie. Yet, somehow, I’m suddenly acting like a lovesick fool. I guess this is what a crush feels like, and it’s directed towards the man who tells me to “push harder”. I think I might be in trouble. The bath bubbles begin to rise , maybe I should get in now.
God, that’s weird. It’s been creeping up on me (like gaydar) the last few weeks. It’s not just respect for his fitness expertise. It’s… something more. The way he smiles, the way he corrects my form, his hands brushing my back. It’s making my stomach clench.
This is insane, Danny. He’s my instructor. But, as the tub filled, all I could think about was Noel, his toned abs, and that stupidly cute dimple when he laughs. This is officially a problem. I think I have a crush on Noel. Crap.
