Boy, am I glad I tracked him down. I slump against the door frame, arms folded, as I take in what feels like my own private viewing of Magic Mike. Adam is doing pull ups on some contraption with a high bar—I have no idea what the name for it is, and I don’t care, because my boyfriend is wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts and footwear, and holy fucking shit. The sheen of sweat on him. The muscles. The way his damp hair is raked back off his face. Jesus Christ. I watch as he pulls himself up again. Every single muscle in his body ripples. Those shoulders of his are fucking huge.
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