Laundry Day Alpha and The Lifter’s Lumberjack Breakfast
Wells probably should’ve gone home and changed.
The club was still buzzing, lights low, bass heavy, bodies moving on instinct—but Wells had already wrung everything he wanted out of the night. Sweat slicked his skin. Legs warm. Confidence fully charged. The glow-in-the-dark harness had done its job, catching every flash of light and every wandering glance.
But grocery shopping in full club gear? Even Wells had limits.
By the bar, he reached back, unbuckled the glowing straps, and peeled the harness off like he was shedding the last layer of the night. From his bag, he pulled on a fitted royal blue sleeveless athletic top—tight across the chest, reflective accents catching the light just enough to suggest trouble without announcing it. Practical. Clean. Still unmistakably him.
Laundry could wait. The pile of sweaty golden gear at home was already stacked high enough to qualify as its own workout and Wells had definitely worked it hard last night and over the holiday. Fuel couldn’t wait.
By 5:07 a.m., Wells pushed a cart into the 24-hour Metro like he owned the place. Metallic royal blue spandex tights still hugged every hard-earned curve, black boots grounded him with authority, and the sleeveless top clung like it had been designed with him specifically in mind.
The night-shift cashier blinked. Some guy in gym shorts stalled mid-aisle. Wells just smirked and grabbed a carton of eggs.
Eggs. Double-smoked bacon. Protein pancake mix. Spinach.
No hesitation. No substitutions. A man who knew exactly what he was about to do to himself in the kitchen.
No hesitation. No substitutions. A man who knew exactly what he was about to do to himself in the kitchen.
Back home, as the sun crept up and the city stayed quiet, Wells cracked eggs one-handed. Bacon sizzled in the pan like it was aware of its fate. Four eggs scrambled. Six slices of bacon, crispy, no mercy. Pancakes stacked high. Spinach sautéed just long enough to justify everything else.
Still in spandex. Still confident.
The Lifter’s Lumberjack Breakfast hit the plate like a contract. Protein. Fat. Fuel. The kind of meal that didn’t ask permission—it took responsibility.
Wells took a bite, nodded once, and wiped his hands.
“Alright,” he muttered, already thinking about barbells. “Time to earn this.”
Laundry could wait.
The weights couldn’t.
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