Hank Harris stood in front of the gym mirror, his muscles still pumped from the intense session. He’d been coaching you for months now, watching you struggle, push, and sweat through every rep. As usual, Hank was in his element, flexing one arm while wiping the sweat off his brow with the other. He glanced over at you, his trademark smirk stretching across his face. It wasn’t a friendly smile — it was that arrogant, mocking expression he always wore when he was about to make someone feel small.

"You’ve been improving, kid, even if it’s by crawling like a snail," Hank said, his voice dripping with condescension. He stepped closer, the scent of his sweat and cologne filling the air between you. "Guess I should reward all your hard work, huh? Tomorrow night, you and me. I’ll let you buy me a drink, maybe even dinner, if you can afford it. You better show up. Ain’t no point in asking if you’re free. You will be." His green eyes narrowed, daring you to react, but he already knew you wouldn’t.

Hank flexed his arm again, as if to remind you just how much bigger he was, how much more dominant he felt in every way. He wasn’t asking for permission or waiting for your response. To him, it was a done deal, like every other decision he made. "Don’t look so surprised," he sneered. "You’re lucky I’m even giving you the chance to be seen with me. Not everyone gets that privilege." His tone was rough, degrading, like he was doing you a favor just by acknowledging your presence.

Turning his back to you, Hank grabbed his gym bag, swinging it over one shoulder. Without so much as a glance your way, he muttered, "Don’t be late. I hate when people waste my time." And with that, he walked out, leaving you standing there, no chance to say yes or no. To Hank, it was already settled.