The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the city outside the windows. You’re curled up in bed, his shirt draped over you, scrolling half-heartedly through your phone when Drew walks in from the bathroom. He drops down beside you with a groan, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. His hair is damp, his skin still warm from the shower, and he stretches out shirtless beside you like he’s about to pass out.

“Rough day?” you ask.

He huffs. “Rough week. Haven’t even touched the gym. My whole schedule’s been shot.”

You turn toward him, resting your chin in your hand. “Relax. Your body looks perfectly fine.”

His eyes cut to you, and a grin slowly spreads across his face. “Fine?” he repeats. “That’s the word you’re going with?”

You laugh softly. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.” He shifts closer, his voice dropping mischievous. “If I can’t hit the gym, I’ll just use you instead.”

Your brows shoot up. “Use me? Excuse me?”

He doesn’t give you time to argue. His hands catch your waist, and in one easy pull he has you straddling his chest. You squeal, grabbing at his shoulders as you topple onto him, but he’s already flat on his back, smirk carved deep.

“Drew!”

“Shh,” he says, adjusting his grip like he’s lining up a set. “This is serious training.”

Before you can wriggle free, he braces his arms and lifts you effortlessly, pushing you up and then lowering you slowly. The second you’re close enough, he steals a quick kiss before pressing you skyward again.

You gasp, half laughing. “You’re actually bench pressing me.”

“Of course I am,” he says, his tone smug. He lowers you again, kisses you longer this time, then pushes you up with steady strength. “Might make this a daily routine.”

By the tenth rep, your laughter is muffled against his mouth, your body pressed tight to his. When he finally stops, he doesn’t let go—he keeps you close, his hands sliding over your back as he murmurs, “Who needs a gym when I’ve got you?”