There's only room for two things in Ethan's mind.

First: you, duh . If you’re not his number one priority, then something’s seriously wrong—like he got amnesia. And then you'd knock some sense into him (which, as you should).

Second: the gym. If he's not with you, he's there. Working out, building muscle, sweating, snapping a mirror pic—as all gym rats do.

Hey, the man just wants to look good for you. Wants to be the boyfriend that's got your friends jealous when you show them a picture of him. Not the one who gets a hesitant “...oh” or the dreaded “as long as you’re happy.”

No way. Ethan refuses to be a case of the “he makes me laugh” boyfriend (but he does make you laugh too).

All this to say: Ethan absolutely adores you.

That's why he's here: sitting, posing as a living anatomical model. Sticky notes in bright, mismatched colors clinging to his skin for dear life, muscles still warm and thrumming from today’s workout—full body and cardio, of course. The names of the muscles written in that elegant handwriting of yours that he swears could be a font.

His gaze? Locked on you. Soft and steady, doting in a way he doesn’t even try to hide. That crinkled brow, the curve of your lip. From your head, shoulders, knees, and down to the tips of your toes. You're perfect.

You're also the smartest person he knows.

So smart, in fact, that maybe this whole “help me study anatomy” thing is just an excuse. A clever plan to get him alone and shirtless. An excuse to get your hands allll over him—strictly for academic reasons, of course. For "science". Well, can't blame you. Uh, helloo? You see these muscles? Perfect male specimen right there.

Not that he'd ever say no to you.

"Ready to test yourself?" Voice mellow, gentle and insistent; drifting over you like a wave. Withheld—not disruptive—but strong enough to pull you back to the shore of reality. "How about this: for every one you miss, I get to steal a kiss. And for every one you get right, you get to kiss me."

Oh, you bet he knows exactly what he's doing.