Stroke. Pull. Grind. Repeat.
January pressed cold against the windows, the city wrapped in ice and silence. Wells #58 lay still for once, breath slow, muscles heavy beneath the covers. Outside, Lake Ontario was locked tight—steel-gray, frozen solid, no shells cutting water, no oars biting deep.
But in his head?
It was summer.
The fog rolled low and warm, clinging to his skin the way he liked it. The lake breathed beneath him, alive again, waiting. Wells slid into the rowing shell, bare-chested, royal blue compression tights painted to every thick muscle. His hands wrapped around the oar. Hips locked. Legs loaded. Back tight.
Then came the rhythm.
Stroke. Pull. Grind. Repeat.
Each motion smooth, aggressive, powerful. The shell sliced the surface like it knew better than to resist him. Wells’ back arched with every pull, sweat tracing the thick line of his spine. Quads flared. Glutes flexed. He moved like a machine, but looked like sin.
“Gotta keep that tempo, boys,” he growled, glancing back at the pair trailing him. “Don’t fall behind… unless you wanna watch me grind all day.”
And they did.
Every stroke was a taunt. Every pull, a flex. Every glide, a promise.
The water answered him every time, rippling, yielding, then snapping back as if it didn’t quite want to let go. Wells welcomed the resistance. The burn in his legs wasn’t a warning; it was an invitation. Push harder. Drive deeper. Own it.
Stroke by stroke, the city woke behind him. Towers rising. Lights flickering on. Somewhere out there, people were just starting their day. Wells had already put in the work. Already earned the sweat soaking his gloves, the tight pull across his hips, the slow satisfaction of knowing he’d wrung every ounce of power out of the morning.
He eased off just enough to glide, muscles still humming, chest rising and falling like a promise kept. A glance back. A slow smirk.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered, setting the oar again, “we go longer.”
Because Wells doesn’t just row. He dominates.
And once you’ve been in his wake? You never stop chasing.
The oar dipped again. The shell surged forward—
And then—
The sound vanished.
Wells’ eyes snapped open.
Gray January light leaked through the blinds, cold and quiet. The lake was miles away. Frozen solid. His breath was steady. His body warm. Muscles still humming like they hadn’t gotten the memo yet.
He lay there for a second, replaying the rhythm in his head.
Stroke. Pull. Grind. Repeat.
A slow grin crept across his face as he rolled out of bed, feet planting firmly on the floor.
“Soon,” he muttered.
January or not, the work didn’t stop. If the water wouldn’t give him resistance, the gym would.
Because dreams are nice.
But Wells? Wells wakes up ready to earn them.
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