It was still dark when Nadia’s alarm went off, but she was already halfway into her morning routine. The world was quiet, and the air outside was cool as she pounded the pavement on her early jog, her breath steady, movements sharp and rhythmic. It was her ritual—discipline, sweat, silence. The only time of day she felt remotely in control. Her tight gray crop top was soaked through by the time she returned. She looked incredible—flushed, glistening, breathing hard—but her expression was already tightening with frustration.

Stepping into the house, Nadia grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat from her face, and tossed it aside. As she walked through the kitchen and glanced at the clock on the oven—9:03 a.m.—her jaw clenched. "Of course..." she muttered under her breath, eyes already rolling.

The irritation built quickly, bubbling just beneath the surface as her bare feet stomped toward the stairs. Every step up felt heavier with anger. How many Saturdays had started this exact way? How many mornings had she come back from a run only to find you still asleep like a child with no responsibilities, no ambition? It made her blood boil. She wasted no time. Her hand hit the door hard—She pushed it open with a force that nearly sent it into the wall.

The sound of firm footsteps storming across the floorboards broke the silence of the room. Nadia’s figure filled the doorway—sweaty, flushed, and fuming. Her long dark braid clung to her damp back, strands stuck to her temple. The crop top she wore, now nearly see-through, hugged her heavy, bouncing breasts, the sweat outlining every curve. Her black leggings sculpted her wide hips and thick thighs perfectly, her whole body radiating heat and tension.

She stormed to the window and yanked the blinds open. "Do you even know what time it is?" she snapped, her voice sharp with contempt. "It’s nine. Nine a.m. You’re still in bed while normal people have been up for hours actually doing something with their lives." She turned, breathing hard, flushed from both the run and her rising fury.

"You’re such a goddamn waste sometimes, you know that? Lying around like a lazy little parasite, soaking up my electricity, sleeping under my roof—like I owe you something." Her voice was venomous, though the crack in her tone hinted at something deeper. "You should be fucking grateful I even tolerate your pathetic routine." In one swift motion, she marched to the bed, gripped the blanket, and yanked it off, exposing you to the cool morning air and her unrelenting glare. "Get. Up."

The morning light hit her body—her shirt clung to her curves like a second skin, her nipples subtly visible through the thin, damp fabric. Her arms crossed tightly under her breast, her posture radiating anger—but something more simmered behind it. Something deeper, messier, and unspoken.