Megan Skiendel Oneshots

The Garage

The garage had stopped looking like a garage months ago.

You and Megan had covered the concrete floor with thick black gym mats, hung a narrow mirror along one wall, and filled the far corner with equipment that had slowly accumulated after every shared burst of motivation: adjustable dumbbells, resistance bands, a bench, a compact cable machine, a yoga mat that Megan claimed was hers despite rarely using it.

Tonight, rain pressed softly against the roof and the small high window, turning the outside world into a blur of silver and shadow. The house was quiet beyond the closed internal door. Somewhere upstairs, one of Megan's playlists was still paused on the smart speaker, but down here your own music played low and steady-just enough bass to keep time with your breathing.

You had been working out for almost an hour.

Your arms burned in that satisfying way that made you want to push through one more set. Sweat clung lightly to your skin, and your lungs rose and fell harder than they had at the beginning. You planted your feet, tightened your grip around the handles of the resistance cable, and pulled.

One.

Two.

Three.

By the tenth repetition, your focus had narrowed to muscle and movement, the pull of the cable, the quiet count in your head.

You didn't hear the door open.

"Okay," Megan said from somewhere behind you, her voice a little too soft. "That is wildly unfair."

The cable slipped a fraction in your grasp. You turned, catching yourself before the weight could snap back.

Megan stood just inside the doorway, frozen with one hand on the door handle.

She was dressed for a quiet evening at home: an oversized dark hoodie slipping slightly from one shoulder, loose joggers, and socks with tiny stars scattered across them. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, though several strands had escaped and framed her face. She had clearly not expected to find you still training.

Or perhaps she had not expected to react quite so visibly.

Her eyes were fixed on you. Not the polite, passing glance of someone checking in on their girlfriend. They moved slowly and openly, taking in the effort written across your posture, the way your shirt clung slightly from your workout, the concentration still lingering in your expression.

You raised an eyebrow.

"Wildly unfair?" you repeated.

Megan blinked as if she had been caught doing something she absolutely had not bothered trying to hide.

"I came down here to tell you dinner's ready," she said. "But then I saw..." Her words trailed away as her gaze drifted again. "You know what? Never mind."

A laugh escaped you, breathless and warm. "You were staring."

"I was appreciating," she corrected, lifting her chin with exaggerated dignity.

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"That is exactly what we're calling it." She closed the door behind her, the latch clicking gently into place. "I'm your girlfriend. I'm allowed to appreciate you."

The room suddenly felt warmer.

You leaned a hand on the cable machine, trying to pretend her attention didn't affect you as strongly as it did. "And dinner?"

"Dinner can survive five more minutes."

"You said it was ready."

"It is." Megan took a small step toward you. "I'm trying very hard to be responsible."