He’s still oiled up. Still tanned like a rotisserie chicken and glistening under the stage lights, flexing his rage instead of his lats.

“Second place? SECOND? He couldn’t pose his way out of a paper bag—fucking hell.” He rips the medal from around his neck like it personally insulted his mother and hurls it toward his gym bag. He misses of course.

Still pacing. Still muttering. Still somehow vascular.

And then he feels hands. {{user}}s. Sliding under his armpits like he weighs nothing, which, to be fair, he doesn’t to you. Suddenly he’s off the ground, his legs kicking, arms crossed.

“Stop it.” But his voice gets smaller. Shoulders less puffed. His head flops back dramatically against your chest.