Rebirth - bonus scenes 1 (Mark and Lauren) (Patreon)

The restaurant Lauren picked is narrow, tucked into a side street off 14th—dim lights, exposed brick, tables close enough that your knees bump if you’re not careful. She’s already there when I walk in, coat draped over the back of her chair, scrolling with one thumb. Dark hair pulled back loose. Green top catching the candlelight when she shifts. She looks up, pauses half a second, then smiles.

I slide into the seat across from her. “Sorry I’m a couple minutes late. Traffic was stupid.”

“No worries.” She sets her phone face-down. “I ordered us wine. Red. They said it’s not too heavy.”

The server drops off two glasses—deep, almost black in this light. We clink, small.

She asks about my day. Work, the new client pitch, the gym. I answer, then lean forward a little.

“Speaking of the gym—my buddy Mike was being weird today. I stopped by his cube around four to confirm we were hitting legs. Guy’s usually all in. Texts me sets the night before like it’s a plan. Today? Nothing. I ask if we’re still on and he just… bails. Says he’s feeling off.”

Lauren tilts her head. “Off how?”

“Physically.” I take a sip. “He’s walking different. Stiff through the hips. Short steps. And his shirt’s untucked—he never does that. Always tucked, belt, the whole thing. Today it’s hanging loose and his shape looks… off. Wider.”

She smiles a little. “Maybe he discovered donuts.”

“Maybe.” I roll the glass once. “But it’s not just weight. It’s how he’s moving.”

“You sound invested.”

“He’s my lifting partner. If he’s off, I’m off.” I shrug. “Anyway. This place—good call.”

Her smile settles in. “Friend brought me here. Said the short rib ravioli was worth it.”

“On a first date.”

“We’re calling it that.”

“Just making sure.”

We order. Conversation moves easy after that. She talks about work—clients, printers, small frustrations that pile up. I tell her about a bulk order mistake at the gym. She laughs, loud enough that the next table glances over.

By the time food shows up the room feels warmer. The wine’s halfway gone. She eats slow, watching me when I talk. I catch myself watching her mouth.

Dessert’s something chocolate we split. She leans back after, stretching her arms overhead. The fabric of her top pulls, then settles.

“Okay,” she says. “Your turn next time.”

“Deal.” I signal for the check. “But only if you promise not to ghost me when I talk about deadlifts.”

“I like deadlifts.”

We split the bill. Outside, the air’s cooler. She stops under the awning, turns toward me.

I step in, hand at her waist, and kiss her.

Her lips are soft, a little cool. Wine first. Then her. Close, warm. I stay there a second longer than I need to, breathing in.

She leans in, then pulls back just enough to look at me.

“Good first date?”

“Yeah. Really good.”

She smiles, pulls on her coat. “Text me tomorrow.”

I watch her walk to the corner, flag a cab. The taillights disappear. I stand there a second, the faint trace of her still there in my nose, then head to my car.

---

The gym lights hum overhead.

Mike walks in wearing fleece sweats. Grey. Hood halfway up. Too warm for it. The fabric hangs loose everywhere except where it pulls tight across his hips—fuller there, round in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him.

“What are you wearing?” I say.

“Pulled something. Hamstring.”

“Bullshit.” I toss him a resistance band. “Squats first. Light weight.”

He loads the bar lighter than usual. Doesn’t say anything about it.

We set up side by side.

I’m talking while we load. “So I went to that place she picked. Restaurant on 14th. Thought it’d be overrated.”

He ducks under the bar.

“It was actually good,” I add. “Like—annoyingly good.”

He lifts the bar out, steps back.

“She was right,” I say. “Which I don’t love.”

He starts his first rep.

On the descent his knees cave in fast. I step closer. “Drive them out.”

He corrects on the way up.

Second rep—same thing, deeper. His stance shifts wider on the third.

“You’re leaning forward,” I say.

He adjusts again. Drops into the next rep—

A quick, wet pop. Sharp. Not the bar.

He locks out and goes still.

I look at him. “The fuck was that?”

“Bar,” he says. “Squeaky collar.”

I glance at the bar. Nothing. Look back at him.

He’s already stepping forward, re-racking, not meeting my eyes.

I grab my water bottle, give it a second, then let it go.

We finish the sets.

His knees keep wanting to collapse. Hips moving wrong at the bottom. He fights it every rep. Sweat spreading low across the sweats.

We move to leg press.

I start loading plates. “She wants to go to this place in the West Village next week,” I say. “Tasting menu. Fourteen courses.”

He sits down, adjusts the seat.

“Fourteen,” I repeat, sliding another plate on.

“Go,” he says.

“She’ll be right again.”

“Probably.”

I shake my head, add one more plate.

He starts his set. I watch from the side.

Each rep, his hips shift slightly forward at the top. Subtle. The fabric tightens and releases with the motion.

He finishes, stands quick, heads off toward the bathroom.

I take the seat right after.

Still warm.

I sit, adjust—

Slick.

Cold, wet patch under me. Thicker than sweat. It spreads fast through my shorts.

I start pressing anyway.

One rep.

Then the smell hits.

Sweet. Heavy. Dense. Like female arousal. It builds, settles.

I keep moving. Legs working. Breathing steady. The damp spot clings with each rep.

Mike’s face flashes. Same guy from the rack.

I finish, stand, grab my towel, wipe the seat. The towel comes away with a sheen. I fold it, shove it into my bag.

He’s back by the time I finish the next set. Quieter now.

We move through the rest—leg curls, abs. He drops weight without saying anything. I don’t call it out.

At the end, he sits up slower than usual.

“You’re pale,” I say.

“Stomach.”

I look at him a second longer than I need to.

“You doing okay? Not the stomach. Generally.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay.”

I hold it a beat, then nod.

“Beer next time,” I say. “I’m buying.”

I clap his shoulder, head out.

The smell’s still there, faint in the fabric, riding with me all the way home.

---

We’re back at my place, the energy from the second date still humming between us. The air in my apartment feels thin and expectant, the kind of silence that usually comes right before a first real night together. I toss my keys on the counter and drop my gym bag by the shoe rack with a heavy thud.

Lauren looks around, taking in the space—the stacks of books I haven’t read, the neat, untouched pile of mail. She’s smiling, that low, easy glow of someone who likes what she sees.

“So, this is the inner sanctum,” she says, stepping further into the living room. Then she pauses by the bag. “And this is the smell of the inner sanctum’s athletic department. Mark… honestly. It’s lethal.”

I laugh, a little embarrassed. “I told you, Mike and I went hard today. I’ll throw it in the closet.”

Lauren leans against the kitchen island, relaxed. Her hair’s a little messy from the walk over. “I’m a runner, remember? I’ve seen the dark side of a laundry basket. Here—let me help. I’m already standing right by the machine.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, but she’s already reaching down.

She pulls the bag onto the small counter in the laundry nook and tugs the zipper open. I stay a few feet back, watching. There’s a faint prickle of unease I can’t quite place.

She reaches in and pulls out my gray lifting shorts. They’re heavy, stiff where the sweat has dried. She starts to toss them toward the washer—

—and stops.

Her head tilts slightly.

Slowly, she brings the fabric closer to her face. A quick inhale—then another, deeper one, more deliberate, from the seat of the shorts.

The room goes still.

“Mark?” She doesn’t look up. Her voice has dropped, the playfulness gone.

“Yeah?” My heart’s already picking up.

She turns the shorts in her hands, eyes settling on a darker, irregular patch. Her fingers brush it absently. She doesn’t drop them. She smells it again, slower this time.

“This is… really weird.”

“It’s just a hard leg day, Lauren. We were in there for two hours.”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s not.”

Now she looks up at me, something unsettled behind her eyes.

“It doesn’t smell like you. Or like gym sweat.”

“It’s sweat,” I say, but it sounds thin.

She hesitates, searching for the words, like she’s trying not to overstate it.

“It’s… feminine,” she says finally. “Not perfume. Not soap.” A small pause. “Warmer than that. Closer.”

I don’t respond.

“It’s just—” she exhales, a little frustrated with herself “—it’s intimate. That’s all I’m saying.”

My stomach tightens.

“Mike,” I say, the name coming out more automatic than certain.

Her eyebrow lifts. “Your friend Mike smells like that?”

“No. He was a mess today,” I say, stepping closer. “Sweating through everything. We were rotating on the same benches, same machines… he kept going right after me, before anything dried. It probably just—” I gesture vaguely “—transferred.”

Even as I say it, I hear the gap in it.

Lauren glances down at the shorts again, then back at me. She’s weighing it—how much sense it makes, how much it doesn’t.

“He’d have to be leaving a lot behind,” she says quietly.

I don’t answer.

Because now I’m replaying it.

The way he kept shifting between sets. Taking longer than usual. The way he’d sit, then stand, then sit again like he couldn’t get comfortable. The damp outline he left behind on the bench more than once—something I’d noticed without really thinking about it.

Lauren drops the shorts into the washer with a firm thud, like she’s done holding them. She wipes her hands on her jeans, still faintly frowning. “It’s a very… present smell. If he’s that sick, he shouldn’t be in public. Definitely not at a gym.”

“I know.” My voice feels distant. “He’s been… off since yesterday.”

I reach for her hands. Her fingers are cool. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize I was bringing that home.”

She studies my face for a moment.

Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eases, though it doesn’t fully disappear.

“Just… wash those thoroughly,” she says. “And maybe wipe things down before you use them next time.”

“Yeah. Deal.”

I pull her closer. She leans into me, pressing her face into the crook of my neck, takes in my scent.

I hold her.

But my mind is still back at the gym.

The way Mike’s form on the squats had shifted—and the feminine musk he’d managed to leave all over me.

---

The Collector version of these scenes include images, including an additional image of Mike and Mark at the gym together.