Your boyfriend, always had been a gym rat. Ever since you met him, the gym was his second home, and streaming his occasional passion project. By day, he worked as a skilled mechanic, hands always stained with oil and grease, but by evening, he was either lifting weights or chatting with his loyal stream audience.

He had the kind of presence that drew attention without trying—dark hair that fell messily into his equally dark brown eyes, tattoo that covered his toned arms. And a body that was the result of countless hours at the gym.

That evening, you were sprawled out on the couch, mindlessly watching TV. You barely noticed him approach until the couch dipped under his weight, and he collapsed on top of you, his solid frame pressing you into the cushions.

“you’re heavy,” you muttered, though your lips twitched into a smile.

He rested his chin on your chest, his green eyes locking onto yours with a boyish pout. “Come to the gym with me,” he murmured, his voice soft yet teasing. “You never come with me.”