ally

You had tons of reasons you loved your boyfriend, Connor.

He was kind in a quiet way that most people never got to see. He remembered the tiniest things, like foods you absolutely hated or the exact playlist you needed when deadlines were choking you.

He laughed at your stupid memes from TikTok he sometimes never understood and never once made you feel dramatic for crying at dog rescue videos. He was safe and your home.

But God, those biceps.

They weren’t even the main reason but they were absolutely in the top five. Maybe top three on days when he wore short sleeves.

Today was one of those days.

Chicago in early November was pretending it wasn’t about to get brutal, so Connor had thrown on a plain black t shirt that should have been illegal. The cotton clung to his chest and stretched across his shoulders, but the real crime was happening from the deltoid down.

The sleeves ended exactly where the swell of his biceps began, like whoever designed the shirt knew precisely what they were doing to people like you.

The fabric was tight enough that every time he moved you could see the shift of muscle underneath, the way the peak rose when he lifted his arm even a fraction.

You were both in the kitchen of his downtown apartment, supposedly making breakfast. In reality he was flipping pancakes one handed while you sat on the counter beside the stove, legs swinging, shamelessly staring.

“You good over there?” he asked, voice low and amused as he slid another perfect pancake onto the stack. He flexed his right arm a little as he reached for the spatula, the muscle bunching under tan skin.

You giggled. “Define good.”

He laughed under his breath and turned the burner off, then finally faced you fully. Both arms crossed over his chest now, which only made everything worse. The sleeves rode up higher. You were going to die on this counter and it would be entirely his fault.

“Come here,” he said, tilting his head.

You hopped down without hesitation and crossed the three steps between you. The second you were close enough, your hands found their favorite spot: palms sliding over the hard curve of his left bicep, fingers curling as much as they could around it. And they still didn’t meet.

“Morning check in?” he teased, watching your face like he already knew the answer.

“Obviously.” You gave a little squeeze, testing, like this was a serious scientific experiment and not just you being completely gone for your boyfriend’s arms. “I have to document growth, Connor. This is important research.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “Definitely bigger.”

It was a lie and you both knew it. They’d been this ridiculous for months now, he had big biceps already three years ago. But the ritual was sacred: you checked and he flexed. You pretended to measure with your hands like a complete gremlin. He asked if you were sure. You said yes and felt heat pool low in your stomach every single time.

He unfolded his arms and suddenly your feet weren’t on the floor anymore. One smooth motion and his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing and you were back on the counter, only now he was standing between your knees.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“You started it.” His voice dropped, playful but rough around the edges. “You’re the one who can’t keep her hands to herself before I’ve even had any breakfast.”

You slid your palms up slowly, tracing the line where muscle met shoulder, then back down again. “I have a very serious condition. It’s chronic and incurable, and the only treatment is touching your biceps whenever possible.”

“Whenever possible, huh?” He leaned in. “So if I wore long sleeves today you’d suffer?”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “That would be cruel and unusual punishment. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to touch them.”

“You know you’re obsessed, right?”

“You knew that when you started dating me.”

The first time you saw girls on TikTok tying delicate satin bows around their boyfriend’s biceps, most guys played along sweetly, flexing just enough to make the bow tight and maybe even break.

You closed the app, looked across the room at Connor, sprawled on the couch and thought: yeah, no. That trend was made for Connor.

Three nights later, you’re both on the living room floor, some random movie playing as background noise. You’d bought a spool of baby pink satin ribbon the day before and planned on how to get him to do this with you.

He was in the middle of talking about what they were doing at practice today, when you crawled over with the ribbon hidden behind your back.

“Babe,” you say, innocently.

Connor stops talking immediately. He knows that tone. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you lie, then straddle his lap before he can escape. “Hold your arm out.”

He raises one brow but obeys, stretching his right arm across your thighs. The muscle shifts under his skin as he straightens it, already unfairly defined even relaxed.

You loop the ribbon around the thickest part of his bicep, the satin whispering against his skin, and tie it into a perfect bow right on top of the peak.

Connor glances down, lips twitching. “Am I supposed to wear this?”

“Just flex,” you whisper, barely breathing.

He doesn’t even try to play coy. One deliberate curl of his fist and the bicep swells, and the ribbon snaps with a soft pop. The ribbon flutters to the floor like defeated little flag.

Your brain blue screens.

“Oh my gosh,” you blurt, voice cracking somewhere between awe and desperation. “That’s so attractive.” You grab his wrist. “Do it again.”

He laughs. “There’s no ribbon left.”

You’re already scrambling for the spool, cutting another length. “Second attempt.”

Nights when you and Connor were in bed, the rest of the world simply stopped existing.

It didn’t matter that tomorrow he had morning skate at 9am or that your inbox was probably on fire or that the wind off Lake Michigan was rattling the windows like it wanted in.

None of it reached the little universe you built under his charcoal duvet. Here, time moved in heartbeats and the slow drag of his fingers along your hip.

Connor slept warm like a human furnace designed specifically to ruin you for every other season. On the nights when Chicago tried to freeze your soul, you just burrowed closer and let him thaw you out.

He rolled onto his back first, stretching that ridiculous wingspan until his left arm flopped across your pillow in open invitation. You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

You scooted in immediately, sliding your head onto the perfect shelf of his bicep, cheek pressed to the hard curve of muscle, nose tucked against the soft skin of his inner arm. The position left your own arm draped over his chest, fingers splayed over the steady thump of his heart.

“Hi,” you whispered into the dark, lips brushing skin.

He hummed, low and sleepy, and flexed once, just enough that the muscle under your cheek turned to stone for a second before relaxing again.

You smiled against him and let your eyes fall shut.

A few minutes later he shifted again, turning toward you, sliding the arm you weren’t using as a pillow underneath your neck so he could spoon you properly.

The movement was smooth, he’d done it a hundred times and still made it feel like choreography made just for you. Now the bicep you’d been lying on became the one wrapped around your shoulders from behind, pulling you tight against his chest.

His other arm, the one that had been across your waist, came up slowly, until his forearm rested on the pillow right in front of your face.

The veins shifted under the skin, faint in the dim light, and you actually sighed. “Happy?” he murmured against the back of your neck, lips brushing your skin.

You answered by pressing a kiss into his forearm, then another and then one more because you could. “My life is officially complete,” you said, voice muffled against him. “I have achieved peak existence. I can die now.”

He laughed quietly. “Wow, you’re so dramatic.”

You traced one finger along the line where muscle met his tricep. “These arms keep me warm, keep me safe, and double as the world’s best pillow.

His hand found yours in the dark, threading your fingers together and pulling your joined hands down to rest over your stomach.

Some nights you talked until you both fell asleep: silly things about the future, about the dog you were definitely getting once his schedule calmed down, about whose turn it was to pick the next vacation.

Tonight neither of you needed words. The quiet was perfect. His breathing evened out behind you, slow and deep, and you matched it without thinking.

You felt the moment he slipped into real sleep, his grip loosened just slightly and the arm across your chest became pure deadweight warmth. You smiled into the dark and let yourself follow him under, cheek still pressed to the steady rise and fall of his bicep, completely surrounded by him.

Grateful didn’t even begin to cover it