#flexappeal

Golden City Gym. 5:42 a.m.

The lights had just buzzed on, cool, sterile, and unforgiving. Perfect. Nothing exposed your work like early-morning reflection and zero distractions.

Wells stepped into the locker room, gym bag in hand, towel slung over his neck. A backwards gold baseball cap rested low on his head, the bill flipped just enough to frame his face. Just him and the mirror wall. His golden bodybuilding shoes hit the tile with satisfying weight.

He paused in front of the mirror.

Smirked.

“Damn,” he thought, head tilting under the cap’s curved brim. “Look who showed up.”

His black and metallic gold striped spandex shorts clung high and tight—mid-thigh, maximum honesty. The fabric caught the overhead light like a mirrorball. Everything underneath? Set. Loaded. Calm but cocked.

He rolled his shoulders back.

Chest spread. Lats flared. Abs popped like they’d been waiting for him to notice.

“I didn’t flex,” he told the mirror, grinning now. “You flexed first.”

The gold shimmered. The black stripes made it all look sharper—tighter. Thighs pressing hard into the stretch, calves like coiled springs. He turned slightly to the side, watching the cut between quad and hamstring dig deeper with the shift. The backwards cap gave him a casual, cocky tilt, as if even his headgear had better form.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered to no one, admiring the sharp V that dove into the curve of the shorts.

It was one of those rare mornings when the body looked exactly how it felt, hard-earned, hot, and ready. The kind of look that made other guys ask what your program was, and you just shrugged like, oh this? Been doing it a while.

His eyes drifted lower.

The gold shoes. Clean. Reflective. Anchored.

“They make everything look heavier,” he thought, rotating one ankle. “Or maybe that’s just me.”

He leaned closer to the mirror, lowering his voice inside his own head.

“Can’t buy this. Can’t fake this. This is what happens when control meets intention… in spandex and a hat.”

Then, he paused. The towel over one shoulder. The way the light hit. The flex locked in place without looking forced.

“Man, this angle deserves a reel,” he muttered, flexing just enough to watch his back muscles shift in the mirror. “If only I had a camera guy who knew my good side… or at least pretended not to get distracted.” He winked at himself, amused. “Not that I blame ‘em. This kind of golden content doesn’t shoot itself, but maybe that’s half the tease.” as he pictured what the reel might look like in his head.

He gave a slow turn, checking the back.

Yup.

Glutes stacked like plates. Hamstrings carved. The shorts riding that line—tight enough to tease, shiny enough to flex for him. He bounced one heel lightly, just to see the muscle twitch beneath the gold brim above.

“That’s right,” he smirked, dragging his towel down his neck. “You bend deeper, you bounce higher.”

He took a long breath, let his abs draw in, just to watch the line tighten from chest to waistband.

This wasn’t vanity. This was quality control.

“You train the body like it’s sculpture,” he thought. “And every morning, the gallery opens early.”

One last shift. Shoulders rolled. Arms flared. The black wolf tattoo on his thigh peeked between the gold stripes like it was watching too.

Wells winked at his own reflection beneath the brim.

“Try not to get distracted, champ,” he told himself. “Still got two more inches to carve out before the next match.”

He grabbed his water bottle and put it in his bag, slung the bag over one shoulder, and turned toward the exit.

But not before giving the mirror a final once-over.

“Mirror doesn’t lie,” he thought. “It just shows you what discipline looks like… when it’s dressed to kill.”

He walked out.

Shiny, smug, capped—and 100% earned.