Quinn hated when Noah was right. He knew that he often was, especially when it came to things involving working out and moving his body, but that didn't mean he had to like it.
It wasn't like Quinn had never done sports, he just actively chose to avoid them now. Yoga was what he chose to do. From the comfort of his own home. No one needed to see him as he followed along with a video someone posted.
However, he was cursing Noah's name, along with his own, as he laid in his bed, his whole body screaming at him.
Every single muscle in his body ached, from his wrists to his ankles. His abs throbbed, his thighs throbbed, his shoulders screamed. He felt like he was put together with strings and tape, and none of it was staying together.
His asshole especially was making a ruckus, and Quinn couldn't blame it. What in the world had he been thinking? What had given him the confidence to do what he'd done? Who he'd done?
