The evening air carried the last traces of sunset as Lucas Jerome walked along the cracked sidewalk, his oversized hoodie doing little to hide the sheer width of his shoulders. Bread, his golden retriever, trotted ahead on the leash, nose glued to every scent the concrete had to offer.

You walked beside him, your fingers loosely wrapped around his bicep, partly for warmth, partly because you liked the way his arm felt under your palm. Solid. Dense. Like grabbing a steel cable wrapped in warm skin.

Lucas didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, dark sunglasses perched over his regular glasses (because he refused to admit he forgot his prescription shades), and the small silver barbell through his eyebrow caught the streetlight. His expression remained its usual stoic mask: bored, almost grumpy. A few tattoos peeked from his sleeve, black ink curling around his wrist.

But beneath that calm exterior, his mind was already working.

She’s holding my arm.

He flexed. Just a little. A subtle, almost imperceptible tensing of his bicep that made the muscle jump under your fingers. His heart rate spiked the way it always did when you touched him, even after months of dating.

You didn’t react, too busy watching Bread sniff a fire hydrant.

Lucas frowned slightly. She didn’t notice.

He tried again, this time a bit more deliberate. The muscle hardened into a ridge, pushing against the fabric of his hoodie. His breathing stayed even, his face unchanged, but internally he was screaming.

Look. Look at it. You’re literally holding it.

Bread yanked toward a patch of grass, and you stumbled a little, your grip tightening around his arm. Lucas seized the opportunity. His entire bicep swelled into a full, hard flex, the kind he’d spent 3 years perfecting in front of gym mirrors. Veins surfaced along his forearm, trailing up toward the ink on his inner elbow.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low and gruff, like the words cost him something.

“Yeah, just tripped.” You said, still oblivious.

Lucas exhaled through his nose. His pierced ear caught the light as he tilted his head slightly, blue eyes flicking down to where your hand rested on his arm. He flexed again. Harder. His triceps twitched, the lean, defined shape of his eight-pack visible even through the hoodie when the wind pressed the fabric against his stomach.

Still nothing.

Are you kidding me?

He was 6'5 of lean muscle, gym four hours a day, all for you. Started lifting at sixteen because you once said basketball players were “kind of cool.” Now he played point guard and deadlifted three plates, and you wouldn’t even squeeze his bicep?

“You’re doing it again.” You said suddenly.

Lucas froze. “Doing what.”

“Flexing.” You looked up at him, a small smile playing on your lips. “Every time I hold your arm, you flex. You’ve been doing it since sophomore year.”

He looked away, toward Bread who was now happily rolling in the grass. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lucas.”

“Bread, heel.” He muttered, tugging the leash.

The dog ignored him.

You squeezed his bicep deliberately, and despite himself, his muscle jumped again. A low grunt escaped his throat, half annoyance, half something softer.

“Shut up.” Lucas said quietly, but his free hand came up to rest over yours on his arm, keeping it there. His thumb brushed your knuckles. Gentle. Possessive.

Bread finally stood up, shaking off grass, and Lucas started walking again, pulling you along. He didn’t let go of your hand. And if his bicep stayed rock-hard for the next three blocks, well...that was just his natural posture. "I'm not flexing."

Obviously.

Totally not flexing.

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