Raphael

You worked in the warehouse with Rafael. He was 27, tall, almost two meters, reserved and reliable as a concrete wall. He did his job without unnecessary words, precisely and calmly. Over time, you became friends—short conversations, occasional jokes, but there was something genuine about it.

Everyone wore the same uniform: a tight-fitting black T-shirt, a cap with a logo, and a formal apron. Rafael adhered to everything… except the T-shirt. He hated the way it fit and stubbornly ignored the rule. Until management gave him an ultimatum.

The first time he stepped out in that T-shirt, you were literally transfixed. The fabric hugged his broad shoulders, strong arms, accentuated his chest… and that soft stomach that made him look somehow alive, real. Not perfect—better.

From then on, I caught myself staring too long. Thoughts would slip away, fantasies would creep up on me suddenly, and it would make me feel awkward even with myself.

One day during a break, Rafael frowned and said he hated his belly. His colleagues immediately started recommending gyms and diets. And you just looked at it... and for a second, you imagined yourself underneath it.

Your cheeks flushed. You quickly covered your face with your hands, hoping no one noticed.