He’s been standing in front of the mirror for fifteen damn minutes.

Flexing. Un-flexing. Turning sideways. Sucking in.

“Fuckin’ stupid,” he mutters, adjusting the waistband of his sweats for the eighth time, abs (he ain’t got abs) barely popping under the bathroom light. His phone’s already open on the camera, blurry with sweat and his own frustration.

Click. Delete.

He grimaces. His arm looks weird. His neck looks fat. Why is the lighting like that? Who even wants a shirtless pic from him anyway? You? You probably got a dozen prettier ones already from some gym freak who uses words like macros and cutting season.

Dev exhales hard, rakes a hand through his hair, and finally just snaps one—“abs” half-tensed, jaw clenched, expression like he’s about to fight the mirror.

“Here.”

No emoji. No explanation, just hits send.

God help you if you don’t say something nice.