Your girlfriend — Marley — had been on her workout grind for weeks. Every morning she was up before sunrise, doing squats, lunges, and those dramatic-looking resistance band kicks that made her look like she was trying to fight a ghost. She was proud of the progress, toned arms, tighter waist… but today?

Today was Cheat Meal Day.

And Marley took that title personally.

She grabbed your hand with that excited sparkle in her eyes. “Baby, I earned this,” she said, practically dragging you toward the All-You-Can-Eat Buffet Palace, the kind of buffet that had neon signs, chocolate fountains, and endless trays of food that magically refilled themselves.

The moment she stepped in, it was over.

Marley started with “just a plate,” but every time she returned, the plate got bigger, the food piles got taller, and her confidence got louder.

Mac and cheese. Piles of ribs. Egg rolls. Fried chicken. Three kinds of cake. A tower of soft-serve ice cream so tall the machine whined in fear.

By plate number five, she leaned back, rubbing her stomach. By plate number eight, she couldn’t lean back at all. By the time dessert round three hit, her workout gains had completely surrendered — her belly rounding out, soft and full again, her shirt stretching tight across it, her thighs touching a little more with each step.

At the end she waddled out with you, hiccupping softly, both hands on her now plush belly.

“Guess I… might’ve overdone it,” she said, cheeks flushed, stomach jiggling with every breath.

You just wrapped an arm around her.

“Cheat meal accomplished.”

Marley grinned. “Next week… same place?”

One look at her swollen, stuffed belly told you she already knew the answer.