College Break up

[bigjake737]

This is an intense and realistic episode from my own life's story.  Again, much of it is intact and true.  OF course, this is a fiction site,  so there is some exaggeration and showmanship.  It is up to you to decide what is real and what is made up. 


Maria stood at 5'9", a striking Latina with a frame so thin her arms resembled fragile twigs swaying in the breeze. Her narrow shoulders and delicate build made her look almost ethereal, like a wisp of a person who might float away if the wind caught her just right. But beneath her slight exterior burned a brilliant mind—one that had carried her through her studies at the small Division III college with effortless grace. Her sharp intellect wasn't the only fire within her; for years, her heart had belonged to Fred, the towering basketball player who dominated the court with his lanky 6'4" frame and easy charm.
Fred loved Maria—or at least, he said he did. He adored her wit, her laugh, the way her dark eyes lit up when she talked about her latest research project. But when it came to her body, his affection faltered. He never said it outright, but Maria could feel it in the way his hands hesitated when they touched her, in the polite distance he kept even in their closest moments. She was too thin for his taste, too fragile, and though he cared for her deeply, there was a part of him that craved something... sturdier.
They spent two years together, navigating the awkward dance of young love. Maria threw herself into her books, excelling in her classes, while Fred poured his energy into basketball. She cheered at his games, her voice rising above the modest crowd in the stands, and he'd flash her that lopsided grin that made her stomach flip. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs—until her third year, when everything changed.
One crisp autumn afternoon, Maria pushed open the door to Fred's dorm room, her arms full of textbooks and a bag of his favorite snacks. She'd meant to surprise him, but the surprise was hers. There, on his cluttered desk, sat a copy of Women's Physique World, its glossy cover featuring a female bodybuilder with rippling biceps and a chiseled jaw. Next to it, a bottle of lotion and a crumpled wad of paper towels told a story she couldn't unsee. Her breath caught in her throat, heat rising to her cheeks. Fred wasn't there—he was at practice—but the evidence of his private moment hit her like a punch to the gut.
At first, anger consumed her. How dare he? She'd given him everything—her time, her heart, her unwavering support—and here he was, lusting after women who looked nothing like her. She stormed out, slamming the door behind her, the image of that muscular figure burned into her mind. But as the hours passed, the fury began to shift. It wasn't just betrayal she felt; it was a spark of something new. Resolve.
By their senior year, the cracks in their relationship had widened beyond repair. Fred, emboldened by his secret desires now laid bare, started chasing after the "muscle girls" on campus—the powerlifters, the track sprinters, the women with broad shoulders and defined quads. He didn't hide it anymore, and Maria didn't fight it. They broke up quietly, a mutual unraveling of a love that had never quite fit.
But Maria didn't crumble. Instead, she turned her focus inward—and to the gym. Her roommate, Carla, was a force of nature: a fierce, stocky woman who played on the men's water polo team and could deadlift twice her body weight. Carla had watched Maria's breakup unfold with a knowing eye, and when Maria confessed what she'd found in Fred's room, Carla didn't offer pity. She offered a plan.
"Come with me," Carla said one evening, tossing Maria a pair of borrowed workout shorts. "You're not twigs, chica. You're a frame waiting to be built."
Maria had never touched a dumbbell in her life, but under Carla's guidance, she learned. The gym became her sanctuary. She started small—five-pound weights that trembled in her shaky hands—but Carla was relentless, teaching her form, pushing her limits. Squats turned her stick-thin legs into lean, powerful pillars. Bench presses broadened her narrow shoulders. Protein shakes replaced her late-night study snacks, and slowly, impossibly, Maria's body began to change.
By the end of senior year, she wasn't the waif who'd once floated across campus. Her arms, once twig-like, now bore the faint outline of muscle. Her frame, still tall and elegant, carried a quiet strength. She didn't look like the bodybuilder on Fred's magazine—she didn't want to—but she was no longer the fragile girl he'd known. She'd built herself, not for him, but for her.
Fred noticed, of course. He'd see her in the dining hall or crossing the quad, and his eyes would linger, a flicker of regret in them. But Maria didn't care. She'd outgrown him, in more ways than one. As graduation loomed, she stood taller—not just in height, but in confidence. The brilliant student who'd once loved a boy who couldn't love her back had become something more: a woman who'd learned to love herself, one rep at a time.




The next year unfolded in a whirlwind of change. Maria landed an internship at a trendy retail store downtown, diving into the world of marketing with the same brilliance she'd once reserved for her studies. She and Fred stayed friends, texting about old college memories and the occasional "how's life?" update. Distance had softened the edges of their breakup, leaving a comfortable camaraderie in its wake.
But the gym remained her true love. She'd become an addict, addicted to the clank of weights and the burn of a good set. When she splurged on a membership at an upscale gym—a sleek, modern place with gleaming equipment and mirrored walls—she couldn't resist inviting Fred to join her for a workout. She framed it casually: "I've been obsessed with this place. You've got to see it." Secretly, though, she wanted him to see her—the new Maria, with her broader shoulders and the defined lats she'd been sculpting for months.
Fred showed up, his basketball-player height still towering over her, but this time, she held her own. She led him to the lat pulldown machine, her posture confident as she adjusted the weight— heavier than he'd expected. With each smooth rep, her back muscles flexed under her tank top, a ripple of strength where fragility once reigned. Fred's jaw slackened, his eyes tracing the lines of her once-narrow shoulders, now etched with real definition.
"Maria," he said, almost breathless, "you look... wow. I didn't realize how sexy this is."
Her lips quirked into a knowing smile as she finished her set. His hormones were in overdrive—she could see it in the way he shifted, suddenly awkward in his own skin. Fred's feelings for her, dormant for so long, roared back to life. He'd always cared for her, but this—this new Maria, strong and unapologetic—was a revelation. He signed up for the gym that day, despite the 20-mile trek from his apartment near the airport. Later, he found a branch closer to home and threw himself into it, texting Maria updates on his own progress.
Four months later, they met up again at the airport gym, sweat-soaked and laughing over protein shakes. They reminisced about college—Tom's antics, late-night study sessions, the wine in the dorm—and Maria felt the shift. Fred was hooked, reeled in by her gains, her confidence, the trap she'd set without fully meaning to. She'd built more than muscle; she'd built a version of herself that didn't need him, but could still draw him back. And as they clinked their shaker bottles in a mock toast, she knew: the next chapter was hers to write.

Chapter Three: The Power Play
Maria's internship had thrust her into a whirlwind of training sessions, meetings, and late nights poring over sales data. She thrived in the chaos, her brilliant mind finding patterns where others saw noise. One humid afternoon, as she strode through the company lobby in a crisp blazer and pencil skirt, she spotted a familiar figure lingering near the reception desk—Fred. He looked out of place in his casual hoodie and jeans, his height making him impossible to miss.
"Maria!" he called, his voice cutting through the hum of corporate chatter. "I was in the area—thought I'd take you out for lunch."
She paused, adjusting the stack of folders in her arms. "Fred, I'm swamped today," she said, her tone apologetic but firm. "Training session's running late. But... come by later. My parents' place. We can catch up over dinner." Her dark eyes glinted with a flicker of control—she wasn't about to drop everything for him. Not anymore. He nodded, a little deflated, and she turned away, knowing she'd planted the seed. Fred would have to work for her time now.
That evening, he pulled up to her parents' modest suburban home in his beat-up sedan, still the same car he'd driven in college. Maria emerged from the front door, her sleeveless blue dress hugging her newly sculpted frame. At 5'9", she'd always been striking, but now her presence was commanding. Her arms, once twig-thin, had blossomed to a lean 13 inches—veins snaking across sinewy muscle, a testament to her gym obsession. Fred's jaw tightened as he took her in, his eyes betraying a hunger he couldn't hide.
He drove them to a cozy restaurant near the upscale gym she'd introduced him to, the air between them buzzing with unspoken history. Over plates of grilled chicken and quinoa—her choice, a nod to her disciplined lifestyle—she caught him staring, his gaze locked on her arms as she reached for her water glass. She let the moment simmer, savoring the shift in power. On a whim, as the meal wound down, she leaned back and grinned. "Hey, maybe we catch a show after this. There's a theater nearby."
Fred agreed, his voice a little too eager, and soon they were in the theater parking lot, the night air cool against her bare shoulders. She turned to him, her smile teasing. "Okay, you've been staring at my arms all night. Should I show you my progress?"
Fred's knees practically buckled. "Uh... yeah," he managed, his voice a hoarse whisper.
She flexed, her bicep rising into a tight, defined peak, the veins popping under her skin. "Want to feel my guns?" she asked, her tone playful but laced with intent. Fred's hands shot out, wrapping around her arm—tentative at first, then lingering too long. His breath hitched, and then, to his mortification, his body betrayed him. His erection strained against his jeans, undeniable and instantaneous.
Maria's eyes widened, a laugh escaping her before she could stop it. "I... didn't expect that," she said, half-amused, half-intrigued. Fred's face flushed crimson, his hands dropping as he stammered an apology, turning away to hide his embarrassment. Their first round of dating in college had been chaste, sexless—a gentle, tentative thing. This was raw, uncharted territory.
But Maria didn't recoil. She stepped closer, her voice softening. "Hey, it's okay," she said, though the smirk tugging at her lips told him she knew exactly what she'd done. She had him—hook, line, and sinker. The fragile girl he'd once overlooked was gone, replaced by a woman who wielded her strength like a weapon, and Fred was powerless against it.
As they stood there in the dim glow of the parking lot lights, Maria felt the thrill of victory. She'd reeled him in, not just with her body but with the confidence she'd forged. Fred might have been embarrassed, but she saw the truth in his eyes: he was hers to command, and she wasn't done showing him what she could do.



Chapter Four: The Rebirth
Twenty-five years had swept by in a blur of milestones and quiet losses. Maria and Fred had built a life together—four children, a sprawling house in the suburbs, and a marriage that had weathered its share of storms. Their love, once reignited by her newfound strength in that theater parking lot, had deepened into something steady, if not always electric. Maria's parents had passed—her father years ago, her mother just two months prior—and their absence left a hollow ache in her chest. She often found herself staring out the kitchen window, melancholy tugging at her edges, longing for the carefree days of college when her workouts were a passion and her love with Fred burned bright and wild.
She'd never stopped going to the gym. For twenty-five years, she'd kept up her routine—maintenance visits, she called them. A few sets of squats, some light lat pulldowns, enough to keep her arms at a respectable 13 inches and her legs toned beneath the stretch marks of motherhood. But it wasn't the same. The fire that had once driven her to transform her twig-like frame into something powerful had dimmed, replaced by the steady hum of responsibility.
One chilly evening, as she drove the kids home from a school function—two teenagers in the back bickering over phone chargers, the younger two strapped into booster seats—she flipped on the radio. A story crackled through the static: a 70-year-old female bodybuilder who'd reinvented herself after her husband's death. The woman had turned grief into grit, sculpting a physique that rivaled a 30-year-old's—muscles taut and defined, a testament to resilience. Maria's hands tightened on the steering wheel, her heart thudding with a sudden, familiar spark.
When they got home, the kids scattered to their rooms, and Maria retreated to her laptop. She typed the woman's name into the search bar—Lillian Torres—and there she was: silver hair pulled into a tight bun, biceps bulging under a tank top, a smile that radiated defiance. At 70, Lillian had the body of someone half her age, her story a phoenix-like rise from loss. Maria sat back, her mind racing. She wasn't 70—not yet—but at 47, she felt the weight of time pressing in. Her mother's death had left her unmoored, and this... this was a lifeline.
The next morning, over coffee, she told Fred. "I'm tripling down at the gym," she said, her voice steady with resolve. "No more maintenance. I want to build again—like I did back then."
Fred's eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face. "Maria, that's... hell yeah, I'm in," he said, leaning across the table. "I've missed that fire in you." At 49, he'd softened around the edges—basketball long behind him, his frame still tall but less lean—but her words stirred something in him too. He'd always been her biggest fan when she flexed her strength, and the idea of watching her reclaim that power thrilled him.
Maria threw herself into it with a ferocity she hadn't felt in decades. She traded her casual gym visits for a rigorous schedule—six days a week, heavy weights, and a diet overhaul that had the kids groaning at the influx of chicken breasts and kale. She studied Lillian's techniques, watched videos, hired a trainer—a gruff woman named Deb who barked orders like a drill sergeant. Her arms, once sinewy but static, began to swell past 13 inches, veins resurfacing like old friends. Her shoulders broadened again, her back rippling with muscle she'd forgotten she could forge. The gym became her sanctuary once more, a place to sweat out the grief and reclaim herself.
Fred noticed. How could he not? He'd catch her in the garage, curling dumbbells in her sports bra, and his gaze would linger, that old hunger flickering back to life. "You're a badass, you know that?" he'd say, and she'd smirk, flexing just to watch his jaw drop. Their love reignited—not the frantic passion of youth, but something deeper, richer, forged in the shared history of raising kids and now lifting each other up.
Two years later, at 49, Maria stood in front of the mirror, her physique a marvel. She wasn't Lillian Torres—not yet—but she was a far cry from the melancholy mother she'd been. Her body was strong, her spirit stronger. Fred joined her at the gym when he could, spotting her on squats, cheering her on as she hit new personal records. The kids rolled their eyes but secretly bragged about their "ripped mom" to their friends.




Chapter Five: The Play Date (Revised)
A year into Maria's gym renaissance, life had settled into a rhythm of sweat, school runs, and stolen moments with Fred. At 49 and 50, they'd found a new groove—less frantic than their college days, but alive with a quiet intensity. One Saturday, Fred surprised her with a plan. "We're going on a play date," he announced over breakfast, his lopsided grin sparking curiosity in her dark eyes.
"A what?" Maria asked, wiping oatmeal off their youngest's chin.
"A play date," he repeated, holding up two tickets to a local theater production—a quirky comedy about midlife reinvention. "You, me, no kids. Just us, like old times. Except, you know, with better biceps." He winked, nodding at her arms, which now hovered closer to 14 inches, veins threading across them like a roadmap of her hard work.
She laughed, warmth spreading through her chest. "You're ridiculous," she said, but she was already in. The kids were shipped off to a friend's house, and by evening, Maria was slipping into a sleeveless black dress that hugged her redefined frame. Fred, in a button-down that strained slightly at his softening middle, couldn't take his eyes off her as she flexed playfully in the mirror.
The theater was a small, intimate venue downtown, its worn seats filled with couples and retirees. As they took their places and settled into the chairs, Fred draped his arm around Maria's shoulders. His fingers brushed against her skin, and he froze, marveling at the solid ridge of muscle beneath. He couldn't believe how muscular they'd gotten—how had he only just noticed the full extent of it now? Her shoulders were like granite, sculpted by months of heavy lifting, creatine, and HMB, the supplements she'd added to push her gains further. He rubbed them seductively, his touch lingering in the dim light of the theater, tracing the contours with a mix of awe and desire.
Maria caught the telltale shift in his posture—the same problem she'd sparked in that theater parking lot years ago. Fred's excitement was unmistakable, his jeans tightening as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He shot her a sheepish glance, his face flushing, but Maria felt triumphant. Her hard work had paid off, and the way he couldn't keep his hands off her sent a thrill through her own body. The pleasure of the "play date," combined with his obvious arousal, turned her on too, a current of heat building between them.
The play was sharp and funny, full of lines that made them both chuckle—sometimes at the characters, sometimes at themselves. During a scene where the protagonist, a wiry woman in her 50s, hefted a dumbbell onstage to prove a point, Fred leaned over and whispered, "That's you up there." Maria elbowed him, but her smile betrayed her.
Afterward, they lingered in the parking lot, the night air cool against their skin. Fred leaned against the car, hands in his pockets, watching her with that familiar mix of awe and affection. "You liked it?" he asked.
"Loved it," she said, stepping closer. "And the 'play date' thing—cute. You're full of surprises, huh?"
"Gotta keep up with you," he replied, his voice low. He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm—now a solid curve of muscle—and lingered there, his touch igniting a flicker of the old heat between them. "You're something else, Maria. Always have been."
She tilted her head, her confidence radiating. "And you're still here for it," she teased, flexing just enough to make him laugh. But the laughter faded into something softer, and for a moment, they stood there, the years peeling back to reveal the two kids who'd once stumbled through love in a dorm room.
The drive home was quiet, the hum of the engine underscoring their comfortable silence. Maria rested her hand on his thigh, feeling the steady strength of him beside her. Later that night, the magic was rekindled in the bedroom. The tension from the theater spilled over, their touches hungry and electric. Her granite shoulders flexed under his hands, his breath quickening as he rediscovered her strength—and her. It wasn't just about the physical; it was the connection, the playfulness of their "play date," the way they'd grown into each other over decades. The spark that had flickered in college, reignited in their 20s, and now burned anew at 50 was proof: they were still in this, together, stronger than ever.


Chapter Six: The Iron Evolution
Maria stood at the kitchen counter, a protein shake in hand, feeling a gratitude she hadn't known in years. Her mother's passing had cloaked her in a heavy fog of depression, but it had finally lifted, replaced by a clarity that came from sweat and steel. Now a high-strung lawyer at 50, she'd found that pumping iron was more than a hobby—it was her escape. The courtroom's pressures dissolved with every deadlift, every pull-up, her mind quieting as her body roared to life.
With the kids growing up—two in college, the younger two spending more time at friends' houses or extracurriculars—the house felt emptier. But that emptiness gave Maria and Fred room to breathe, to explore. They tried boutique gyms, powerlifting dens, even a kickboxing studio that left them bruised and laughing. Then Maria discovered CrossFit. The "box"—a gritty, industrial space filled with chalk dust and camaraderie—became her proving ground. Her strength, honed over decades, exploded there. She thrived on the brutal workouts, her solid muscle gains earning her awards nearly every month: "Most Improved," "Beast of the Box," plaques and medals piling up on their mantle.
Something else was shifting too. As women age, testosterone and progesterone levels often fluctuate, but in Maria, her natural testosterone surged—off the charts for her age, though still within a healthy range. It showed in her new confidence, a swagger in her step that turned heads. Her voice deepened slightly, a husky edge creeping in, and every so often, a stray hair sprouted on her chin, which she'd pluck with a wry smile. In the bedroom, her energy matched Fred's, their intimacy taking on a raw, primal edge. She wasn't "juicing"—no steroids, no shortcuts—just her body's own alchemy, amplifying her gains.
The changes came fast. Her muscles grew tighter, bigger, her once-lean frame thickening with power. Doctors marveled at her labs, shrugging with grins: "It's higher than average, but normal. Enjoy the ride." And she did. Her arms pushed past 14 inches, her shoulders broadened into a V-shape, her quads bulged with every step. She felt invincible.
One summer day, they hit the local swimming club, sinking into the public jacuzzi after a swim. Maria wore a one-piece bathing suit with thin straps, the fabric clinging to her sculpted form. As she climbed out, water streaming off her, every man in the pool froze. Her pecs—well-developed slabs of muscle—pushed against the suit, her chest a wall of strength. As she descended the steps, Fred caught their stares shifting lower, locked on her quads, thick and defined, and her calves, peaked like carved stone. He'd have been as excited as they were, but the hot water had sapped his energy. Still, he smirked, pride swelling in his chest.
On the drive home, Fred spilled the details. "You should've seen them, Maria. Jaws on the floor. One guy almost dropped his beer. Those pecs, those quads—they couldn't handle it." She laughed, a deep, throaty sound, her pride mingling with a touch of vanity. She flexed her arm in the passenger seat, watching the bicep peak, and felt that old thrill.
Weeks later, Fred parked outside the CrossFit box, waiting for Maria to finish her session. The group spilled out, running laps around the block, and there she was—tank top and shorts, her muscular biceps pumping like pistons with every stride. Her body was a machine now, each muscle group defined and fluid. A car full of younger guys slowed down, catcalling through open windows: "Damn, girl!" "Look at those arms!" Fred leaned against the car, arms crossed, pride radiating. These men were half her age, and she was outshining them all.
On the way home, he recounted the scene, his voice thick with admiration. "They were losing it, Maria. Your biceps—pumping like that? And your back, your legs—everything's so damn defined. You're a powerhouse." Her excitement surged, buttressed by pride and a healthy dose of vanity. She grinned, turning to him. "You want a show?"
Back at the house, she delivered. In their living room, she stripped down to her sports bra and shorts, striking bodybuilding poses—double biceps, lat spread, quads flexing into sharp relief. Fred sat on the couch, mesmerized, his eyes tracing every ridge and vein. She'd transformed herself again, not just for him, but for her—and he couldn't get enough. The catcalls, the stares, the awards—they were all hers, and as she flexed, she knew: this was her ride, and she was loving every minute of it.

[bigjake737]

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[Wookey]

Great story. Interested to know whether Fred improved his body. From the sound of it it was only Maria who made the effort to go beyond their college selves.

[bigjake737]

Chapter Seven: Fred's Reckoning
Fred leaned against the kitchen island, sipping a black coffee, watching Maria blend her morning protein shake. The whir of the blender couldn't drown out the quiet pride he felt, seeing her in her element—strong, vibrant, a force of nature at 50. But lately, he'd been taking stock of himself, too. At 52, he wasn't the collegiate baseball star he'd once been, though his frame still carried echoes of that athletic past. Thirty pounds of muscle earned in his early twenties had sculpted a broad back and thick biceps, a foundation that never fully faded. His legs, though—those had always lagged behind, built more for quick sprints across the diamond than for squatting heavy loads. Speed had been his game, not bulk, and his tall, rangy build let him coast on that for years. He was content with it, always had been—his body did what he needed, and that was enough.
Maria, though? Her transformation thrilled him to his core. Every new muscle she carved, every award she hauled home, sent a jolt of awe through him. He'd never tire of watching her evolve.
Time had a way of creeping up, though. The kids were mostly out of the house now, and with Maria's CrossFit obsession pulling her into a new stratosphere of fitness, Fred felt the gap widening. He'd tagged along to her boutique gym phase, grunted through powerlifting sessions, even taken a few wild swings in that kickboxing studio. But his workouts never burned with the same fire as hers. Where Maria thrived on the grind, Fred had settled into a rhythm—consistent, sure, but not transformative. The mirror told the story: his back and arms still turned heads, but his legs remained stubbornly lean, and a softness had crept around his middle, a quiet rebellion against his old athletic prime. He didn't mind—he liked his build just fine—but Maria's powerhouse physique lit something in him, a spark of inspiration.
So Fred started small. He dusted off his old collegiate workout logs, a mix of bodyweight circuits and barbell basics, and carved out a corner of their garage. No CrossFit box for him—he didn't need chalk dust or a cheering squad. Just a rack, some plates, and a pull-up bar. He leaned into what his body already knew: pull-ups to widen that big back, dumbbell curls to pump those biceps, and push-ups to keep his chest solid. But the legs? That was the frontier. Squats felt awkward at first, his knees protesting decades of neglect, but he stuck with it, light and steady, building depth over weight. Lunges came next, targeting the quads and glutes he'd let slide. He'd never have Maria's tree-trunk thighs, and he didn't want them—his lean, functional frame suited him—but he could make them sharper.
Weeks turned to months, and the changes crept in. His back, already a standout, grew denser, lats flaring wider with each set of pull-ups. His biceps, always his pride, hit a new peak—17 inches now, veins snaking across them when he flexed. The legs didn't explode like Maria's, but they tightened up, lean muscle etching lines into his quads and calves. That softness around his waist shrank, not gone entirely, but less a surrender to age. He wasn't chasing bulk—he was too lanky for that—but definition, a return to the speed-and-power hybrid he'd once been. He looked at himself and nodded: this was plenty. Maria's gains, though—they were the real show, and he couldn't get enough of them.
One crisp fall day, they hit the park for a run, something they hadn't done together in years. Maria, in her element, powered ahead, her muscular legs churning up the path. Fred kept pace for a while, then eased back, letting his own stride settle into something sustainable. His legs felt springy, stronger than they'd been in a decade, and his breath came easier. When they stopped at a bench, Maria grinned, sizing him up. "Looking good, babe. Those biceps are popping today." He smirked, flexing one for her, then nodded at his legs. "These too. Not your level, but they're waking up." She laughed, but his eyes were on her quads, thick and chiseled, and he felt that familiar thrill—damn, she was something else.
Later, at home, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror—shirt off, sweat still drying from the run. The tall, athletic kid from the ballfield was still in there, refined now, a little weathered, but holding his own. He liked what he saw, content with the body he'd maintained and nudged forward. Maria stepped in behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, her chin on his shoulder. "You're keeping up with me in your own way," she said, her voice that husky edge he loved. "I like it."
Fred chuckled, turning to face her. "Never gonna out-lift you, but I can still carry my weight." She laughed, giving his bicep a squeeze, and he grinned, his gaze drifting to her arms, her shoulders, her everything. He was fine with his build—always would be—but Maria's power? That was the fire that kept him hooked. In that moment, he felt it—current, not just with her, but with himself. Maria had her iron evolution, and Fred had his reckoning, a quieter one, perfectly his, while her brilliance lit up the room.

[Wookey]

Thank for restoring balance to that relationship. K++++