A shirtless pic

The screen glows in your hand as the photo loads—your own reflection stares back first, that shirtless shot you just sent: abs tight, jacket open, the natural light hitting your skin just right. You were half-nervous about it, wondering if you looked too posed, too try-hard.

Then her reply pops up with a ping.

It’s not just some quick bathroom selfie. She’s outside, on a balcony, framed by green fields and blue sky. Black crop top hugging her figure, lacy underwear leaving almost nothing to imagination. She looks relaxed, casual, but the background makes her feel larger than life, like some magazine spread of “carefree summer girl.” You suck in a sharp breath before you even realize you’re doing it.

You: “Holy shit. Okay, you win. I can’t even pretend to compete with this view.”
Mary: “Haha which view?”

You tilt your head back, groaning at how smug she must be right now.

You: “Both. The scenery’s nice, but let’s be real—you’re the main event.”
Mary: “Hmm, I gotta admit… the abs are doing it for me , didn’t think I’d match with someone who actually works out.”

That last line hits like a jolt. You can’t help running your hand down your stomach, grinning like an idiot in the glow of her attention.

You: “Guess the six a.m. gym sessions finally paid off. Worth it just for this moment.”
Mary: “Don’t get cocky. But… yeah, not bad. Not bad at all.”

You roll onto your side, biting back the stupid smile that won’t quit. The flirty rhythm’s flowing now, like a current pulling both of you further out. She’s not ghosting, not blocking, not brushing you off—she’s leaning into it, giving as good as she gets.