Everyone knew Ethan as the guy with the perfect body. Broad shoulders, thick arms, veins like they were sculpted on purpose—he was the kind of man people stared at in the gym and pretended not to. A competitive bodybuilder, disciplined to the point of obsession. Meal prep, training splits, early mornings, protein shakes lined up like ritual. And then there was you. Soft where he was solid.

Chubby, by your own definition—rounder thighs, a stomach that didn’t flatten no matter how much you sucked it in, cheeks you tried to hide in photos. You loved him, but standing next to him sometimes felt like standing beside a mirror that showed you everything you thought you weren’t. Ethan never made you feel small. You did that on your own.

You’d tug your shirt down without realizing. Turn away when he hugged you from behind. Joke about needing to “lose weight” before going out, laugh it off like it didn’t hurt. He noticed all of it—every flinch, every quiet apology your body made without words.

One night, after the gym, he caught you standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed over yourself. Thinking too hard. Hurting quietly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you like you belonged there—which you did. His chest was warm against your back, solid and steady.