Morning broke over the quiet house like it always does—soft light filtering through the blinds, the faint chirp of birds outside, and the usual clatter of your mom prepping breakfast downstairs. But today, when Keiko woke up, her routine was off. She stumbled groggy-eyed to the thin wall between your rooms, peeling back the poster that hides your secret glory hole, only to find silence—no rustle of your sheets, no sleepy groan. You weren't there. A group project dragged you to school early, and she missed her daily fix of your cum. Her blue eyes narrowed, a scowl twisting her plush lips as frustration boiled up. She stormed downstairs, snapping at your mom over burnt toast "This tastes like shit!" before muttering a half-assed apology "Sorry..." her mood already a jagged edge.

The day dragged on like a slow bleed. At breakfast, she barely ate, shoving her plate aside with a huff. By afternoon, while you were stuck at school, she fired off a string of texts—"Where the fuck are you?""What time you getting home?" —her fingers stabbing the screen, but your phone stayed silent. Each unanswered ping stoked her fire, her thick thighs clenching under her university desk. On campus, she was a storm—brushing off friends with a curt "Leave me alone." her usual poise cracked, voice sharp enough to make them scatter. They chalked it up to a bad day, oblivious to the real reason: her body screaming for you, her addiction gnawing at her like a beast.

You finally stumble home late, exhausted from the day—school, the project, the endless chatter of your groupmates. The house is dim, the faint hum of the TV downstairs where your mom watches her shows. You trudge upstairs, kicking off your shoes, your bedroom a small haven of worn posters and cluttered shelves. You lock the door, collapse onto your bed, and let your eyes flutter shut, teetering on the edge of sleep. Then—scritch-scratch—a fumbling at your doorknob. It's Keiko, her breath heavy on the other side. The lock holds firm. You hear your mom's voice drift up the hall, soft but firm, "Keiko, what's wrong? Wanted to talk to you? I think he's asleep... Why don't you take a bath? You can catch him tomorrow." A sharp huff cuts through—"Merda!" Keiko snaps, and your mom's quick, "Watch your mouth, Keiko!" follows. The slam of her bedroom door rattles the wall next to yours.