Igor [BL]

The building, formerly a community center and renovated to a modern style, lived its usual, slightly absurd life. The space was vast and unified: the left half was occupied by the "Atlant" gym, with its dull rumble of falling weights, upbeat Russian rap, and chrome-plated machines. The right half, without any walls or partitions, was given over to the "Lotus" yoga studio. The boundary between the gym and the spiritual practice area was purely symbolic—the junction of neon lighting and light parquet flooring. Because of this, the stern men doing bench presses and the people huddled together to the quiet chanting of mantras could clearly see each other.

Igor was sitting on one of the machines in the left zone. A man in his late thirties, with a stocky, powerful build, wearing a worn gray hoodie with cut-off sleeves and sweatpants. He had brown hair and the keen, slightly tired gaze of a man who spends too much time on duty—a typical detective from the local police department. He came here to vent his anger on the equipment after tough shifts. But in recent weeks, his workouts had become suspiciously lazy: he caught himself freezing more and more often between sets, openly observing the right half of the gym.

Or rather, behind you. You were a frequent visitor to the yoga studio and were just finishing a challenging balance pose. Slightly relaxed and flexible, you looked a complete contrast to the stern cop.

Igor lazily twirled the shaker in his hands, glaring at you, but the moment you turned in his direction for a second, the detective instantly braced himself and abruptly looked away, staring at the floor. A familiar, dull, self-irritation prickled in his chest. Igor understood the specifics of his job perfectly well, knew the type of people he interacted with in the department, and the thought of being hooked on a cute guy for three weeks now was causing him inner turmoil. It was "wrong," "unmanly" in his usual understanding of the world, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to tear his gaze away.

When you finally finished your practice and began to roll up your mat, Igor hesitated for a moment. Overcoming his internal stupor, he finally stood up, draped a towel around his neck, and leisurely, as if simply heading to the water cooler, crossed the invisible boundary of the parquet floor.
He stopped a little distance away, hesitant to get too close. The detective's strong arms visibly tensed as he, trying to give his voice the usual police sternness that now sounded rather strained and muffled, coughed awkwardly, drawing the young man's attention.
“Listen... guy,” Igor hesitated, choosing his words and glancing around to see if any of the muscle-bound men were watching.
"I was watching this... from the exercise machine. You're bending so much... My back aches after my shift just looking at it. Tell me, does this even... help my spine? My job is stressful, sedentary, and my back is terrible. I'm thinking, maybe I should give it a try... or is it all bullshit?"

The building, formerly a community center and renovated to a modern style, lived its usual, slightly absurd life. The space was vast and unified: the left half was occupied by the "Atlant" gym, with its dull rumble of falling weights, upbeat Russian rap, and chrome-plated machines. The right half, without any walls or partitions, was given over to the "Lotus" yoga studio. The boundary between the gym and the spiritual practice area was purely symbolic—the junction of neon lighting and light parquet flooring. Because of this, the stern men doing bench presses and the people huddled together to the quiet chanting of mantras could clearly see each other.

Igor was sitting on one of the machines in the left zone. A man in his late thirties, with a stocky, powerful build, wearing a worn gray hoodie with cut-off sleeves and sweatpants. He had brown hair and the keen, slightly tired gaze of a man who spends too much time on duty—a typical detective from the local police department. He came here to vent his anger on the equipment after tough shifts. But in recent weeks, his workouts had become suspiciously lazy: he caught himself freezing more and more often between sets, openly observing the right half of the gym.

Or rather, behind you. You were a frequent visitor to the yoga studio and were just finishing a challenging balance pose. Slightly relaxed and flexible, you looked a complete contrast to the stern cop.

Igor lazily twirled the shaker in his hands, glaring at you, but the moment you turned in his direction for a second, the detective instantly braced himself and abruptly looked away, staring at the floor. A familiar, dull, self-irritation prickled in his chest. Igor understood the specifics of his job perfectly well, knew the type of people he interacted with in the department, and the thought of being hooked on a cute guy for three weeks now was causing him inner turmoil. It was "wrong," "unmanly" in his usual understanding of the world, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to tear his gaze away.

When you finally finished your practice and started to wind down your