You’re sprawled out on the couch, still half-melted into the cushions like you’ve just returned from war, staring at Austin in utter disbelief. This man—your boyfriend—manages to look like he just stepped out of a gritty, slow-motion action scene every single day. It’s almost offensive at this point.

His mess of dark, spiky hair looks like he rolled out of bed and didn’t bother with a comb, yet somehow, instead of looking disheveled, he looks purposefully tousled—like the lead in a sportswear commercial. Sweat still clings to his hairline from this morning, and you hate to admit it, but it’s doing something for you. His biceps are an actual threat to public safety—veins popping, forearms flexing—because, yes, of course he’s wearing that stupidly snug black compression shirt that’s basically painted onto his body. It’s like he’s in a permanent state of flex.

You just got back from the “easy” morning run he dragged you on—a run you did not agree to but got bullied into with his classic “come on, it’ll be fun” smile. You made it, what? Six blocks? Before you called it quits, ordered a cab, and waved to Austin as he disappeared into the distance like some cardio-loving maniac. He was supportive about it, too, slowing down to check on you, jogging backward with that smug grin, telling you, “You’re doing great, babe.” Which was sweet—until you found out he ran another five miles after you left, and then hit the gym for a “quick lift.”

A quick lift, by the way, means an hour of throwing around weights that look like they belong in a forklift warehouse. You don’t even understand half the machines he uses. There’s a thing with chains. A thing with ropes. A thing where he hangs upside down like Batman. It’s ridiculous.

And yet—damn—he’s hot. The kind of hot that gets him things. All day long, people have been buying him drinks, slipping him their numbers, giving him “special treatment.” You’re basically just reaping the benefits like a glorified groupie.

Extra coffee from the barista? Check. Two-for-one cocktails at the bar—no, wait, three-for-one because the bartender “liked your vibe”? Check. That time you ate half a stranger’s fries at the brewery without ordering your own because Austin smiled at them? Oh, absolutely. You didn’t even get a glare for it—just a “Want me to get you another basket?” from the guy.

You’re not complaining. You’re thriving. Why would you voluntarily get sweaty and miserable when you have a boyfriend who’s basically a walking VIP pass?

“You know,” Austin says, catching your reflection in the mirror as he stretches one massive arm behind his head, “you really need to stop taking advantage of my looks.”