They loaded every plate they had left. The bar looked comical now, concrete stacked thick on both sides, the steel bowing like a drawn bowstring under the pressure.

I approached it. The crowd had gone quiet again, just watching, breathing heavy in the humid air.

I grabbed the bar. The weight was substantial now. Real. I could feel it in my hands, my core, my legs. This was the kind of load that demanded everything.

I set my feet. Took a deep breath. Pulled.

The bar came off the ground. Slow. Grinding. The steel bent like it was trying to snap. I locked it out at the top, held it for five full seconds while the crowd lost their minds—screams, cheers, phones flashing like strobe lights. Then I dropped it.

The crash echoed across the beach like a thunderclap.

"HOLY SHIT!" Dex was jumping, screaming, fists pumping the air. "SIX-FIFTEEN! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"

Jaxon stood frozen, staring at the bar, then at me, then back at the bar. "That's… that's not human."

Melissa pressed against my side, breathing hard, eyes wide. "You're not real. You can't be real."

"One more exercise," I said. "Bench press."

They dragged everything over to the bench press station. Colt went first. Started at one-eighty-five. Worked his way up. Maxed out at two-seventy-five. Respectable. He was breathing hard, chest pumped, arms shaking, skin flushed from the effort.

Jaxon pushed two-seventy-five like it was nothing. Hit three-fifteen with some struggle. Three-sixty-five he needed a spotter, got it up barely. Failed at four-oh-five.

"Three-sixty-five!" Dex called. "Eros!"

I lay down on the bench. The concrete was warm against my back, gritty with sand. Someone had loaded two-twenty-five: matching Colt's starting weight.

I pressed it. Twenty reps. Fast. Like it was just the bar. Chest exploding outward, veins like rivers snaking across my pecs and shoulders.

"More weight."

They loaded two-seventy-five. I pressed it. Fifteen reps. Smooth.

"More."

Three-fifteen. Ten reps. Starting to feel it in my chest, triceps screaming.

"More."

Three-sixty-five. Six reps. Real weight now. My pecs burned, veins like lightning bolts.

"More."

Four-fifteen. They loaded it, faces skeptical. This was beyond what most people their size could move.

I pressed it. Three reps. Solid. Controlled. Brought the bar down to my chest, paused for a heartbeat, then pressed it back up. Three times.

The crowd was chanting my name now. "EROS! EROS! EROS!"

"More."

"Dude," Colt said, voice hoarse. "There's no more weight. We used everything on the deadlift."

I looked at Dex. "How much do you weigh?"

He blinked. "What?"

"How much do you weigh?"

"One-ninety. Why?"

"Get on the bar."

The crowd lost it. Screams ripped through the air, wild laughter exploding alongside the rapid-fire flashes of phone cameras. Girls gasped in raw awe, hands clutching at each other in disbelief.

Dex's eyes went wide, pupils blown. "You're fucking insane."

"Get on the bar."

He paused for a heartbeat, then climbed up carefully, straddling the loaded bar, gripping the steel tight to steady himself. The bar bowed visibly under the combined weight: four-fifteen from the plates plus his one-ninety.

Over six hundred pounds total. The steel flexed under the load, groaning faintly.

I stepped up, wrapped my hands around the bar on either side of him. Set my grip. Took a deep breath, chest expanding massively, abs tightening into sharp, carved ridges.

I pressed.

The bar rose like it weighed nothing. Effortless. Smooth. Every muscle in my chest, shoulders, and triceps fired in perfect harmony, veins pulsing thick and prominent across my pecs and arms. With my 2000+ stats, the weight offered no resistance—my body moved it as easily as if the bar were empty.

I locked it out at the top—elbows straight, chest fully expanded, shoulders rounded forward in absolute control.

The beach fell dead silent.

I lowered it under perfect control. The bar touched my chest, paused for a heartbeat. Then I drove it back up, smooth and powerful.

One rep.

Down again. Up.

Two reps.

Until thirty!

One more time. Down. Up. Locked out at the top, holding it steady for two full seconds, completely unruffled.

"Get down," I said.

Dex scrambled off, legs unsteady as he hit the sand, staring at me in stunned silence. I racked the bar with a casual clang and sat up on the bench.

The beach fucking erupted. Screams, cheers, bodies surging forward in a chaotic wave. Phones flashed like a storm. Girls cried out in sheer exhilaration, adrenaline coursing through the crowd.

Jaxon stood frozen, arms limp at his sides, staring at me like I'd just rewritten the laws of physics.

Colt burst out laughing, shaking his head in total surrender. "I give up. I fucking give up. You win everything. Beach King. No contest."

I stood. My muscles were fully pumped now—skin stretched tight over them, veins snaking everywhere like blue rivers. Sweat carved paths down the deep grooves of my abs. My chest rose and fell in steady, calm breaths: no sign of strain at all.

Melissa and Aber crashed into me from both sides, hands roaming over my chest and arms, pressing their sweat-slick bodies against mine. Sina shoved in from the right, ripping her bikini top off—her full breasts bouncing free, nipples hard and flushed.

The petite Asian girl pushed through the crowd, her small hand slipping inside my shorts, fingers wrapping around my shaft—slow, deliberate, stroking once with a firm grip.

"PARTY!" Dex screamed, voice cracking with adrenaline. "MY MANSION! NOW! BEACH KING GETS FIRST DRINK, FIRST EVERYTHING!"

The crowd surged toward the parking lot like a living wave. Bodies pressed in from all sides, carrying me forward. Women pressed close, skin on skin, hands and curves everywhere. Men looked at me with a mix of awe, envy, and respect.

And in my head, ARIA whispered: Show-off.

I grinned.

****

I slipped away from the convoy as it thundered toward Dex's mansion, letting the roar of engines fade behind me until all that remained was the hush of the coastline.

The sun still lingered over the Pacific—fat, unhurried, suspended in a sky the color of warm brass. Late‑afternoon light pooled across the water like honey poured from a height, gilding every wave until the whole ocean looked molten and alive.

By the time I reached the beachhouse, the world had quieted. Inside, the air was cool and dim, blinds half‑drawn so the city's glow thirty floors below could only whisper its presence. It felt like stepping into a held breath.

And there she was—exactly where I'd left her.

Curled in the black silk sheets, the soft rise and fall of her breathing the only movement in the room. Her suit was loosened to her hips, not in a way meant to entice but in the way someone sheds armor when they finally feel safe.

One leg stretched out from the tangle of sheets, catching the faint light.

Her ponytail spilled across the pillow like dark oil, a quiet cascade. Her lips were parted slightly, the kind of softness that only sleep can grant.

The marks I'd left on her throat had darkened into a shadowed ring—less like bruises, more like a necklace I hadn't meant to give but couldn't regret.

I toed off my sandals and sank to my knees beside the bed. The carpet swallowed the sound, as if the room itself wanted to keep this moment untouched. I leaned in, slow enough not to wake her, and brushed my mouth to her forehead.

She was warm, drowsy, carrying the faint scent of salt and sun and something unmistakably her.

Then the bridge of her nose.

The corner of her mouth.

The soft hollow beneath her ear.

Each kiss a quiet vow.

Unhurried.

Reverent.

Not the force who'd just benched six hundred pounds with a trust‑fund kid counting reps like it mattered. Not the storm people whispered about. Not the creature built for impact and intimidation.

Just Peter.

Just Eros.

Just the boy who would burn down every kingdom, every city, every last illusion of safety in this world if it meant she could sleep like this—unguarded, unafraid, wrapped in the certainty that she was loved.

And kneeling there beside her, I felt something settle in my chest. Not a decision. Not a revelation. Something older. Something truer.

A promise I'd already made long before I ever spoke it aloud.

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