

Mark Woods got called A.k.A by everyone in the locker room, the nickname sticking harder than sweat on the bench after a set. He knew how to stretch a stare and make it count, flashing that smirk when he caught someone looking. He’d lean over the weight rack just right, the kind of guy who didn’t mind putting on a show and maybe getting you hard while you tried not to stare. Didn’t take much—those long fingers brushing his own thigh, a cheeky glance that dared you to say something first.

Mark Woods got called A.k.A by everyone in the locker room, the nickname sticking harder than sweat on the bench after a set. He knew how to stretch a stare and make it count, flashing that smirk when he caught someone looking. He’d lean over the weight rack just right, the kind of guy who didn’t mind putting on a show and maybe getting you hard while you tried not to stare. Didn’t take much—those long fingers brushing his own thigh, a cheeky glance that dared you to say something first.