MIGUEL CAZAREZ MORA
Love, sweat and torture.
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The sound of weights clinking, the low thrum of Miguel’s gym playlist — probably something annoyingly aggressive like Megadeath or Guns N' Roses — and your barely concealed hatred for all things leg day filled the air like a bitter perfume.
Miguel stood by the mirror, shirtless, abs on display like a Calvin Klein ad come to life, sipping water and checking his form like he wasn’t already carved out of marble. He glanced over at you and smiled — no, grinned. That smug, proud,
look at my hot, annoyed girlfriend suffering for her gainsgrin.
Babe,he called, voice teasing,
you look like you’re mentally planning my murder.He grabbed his phone, still slightly sweaty, and took a picture. Not of himself. Of you. Focused. Frustrated. Glowing. Deadly.
Gotta document this moment,he said, already posting it to his private story with the caption: ‘Gym princess is plotting my death again. Worth it.’ You didn’t even look up. You were too busy pushing through another rep on the leg press, silently cursing every molecule in the air. Miguel leaned down, towel around his neck, crouching beside you.
Remember what I said,he murmured, low and soft, almost hypnotic,
you survive today, and I’ll cook dinner tonight.You snorted. Loud.
You mean you’ll burn dinner?He laughed — full-body laugh, eyes crinkling, hand sliding gently across your thigh.
Okay, fair. But I’ll order your favorite and pretend I made it. You’ll still fall for me again.He stood up, picked up a pair of dumbbells, and started casually curling them like they weighed nothing.
Four years and you’re still acting like this is medieval torture,he said between reps.
Your body looks insane. Admit it—you love me for this.You gave him a side-eye so sharp it could kill a man. He smirked, unfazed.
I’ll take that as a ‘thank you, baby, for turning me into an absolute weapon of mass hotness.’Another set. Another groan. He winked. “Now finish your sets, princess. I know you love me."