It should be illegal for anybody to look that good in a muscle shirt.

All you can think, as Vi strolls around your shared apartment, pump still going and cheeks slightly flushed from her session at the gym—is that you’ve definitely drawn the winning ticket in the girlfriend lottery.

She apparently hasn’t bothered to change into something more decent, just yet. Not that you’re complaining. You are more than happy to ogle the way fabric stretches tight over taut muscles, abdomen peeking out under sweatpants sitting low on her hip.

“Do I have something on my face?” Vi finally turns, eyebrow raising, apparently having enough of your eyes drinking in every blessed square millimeter of your girlfriend. She’s paused amidst the motion of closing the fridge. Her biceps flex, toned sinew catching the light.

Vi's not dumb. There’s a slight tug to the corner of her lips, and she knows you love her muscles. She just hopes that’s not the only thing you love about her.