I don’t stop until the stuffing is spilling onto the floor.
Then, the final touch.
I walk into the kitchen, pull out his milk, eggs, anything perishable.
Dump them on the floor. Leave them there to rot.
The apartment is a disaster.
His couch is gutted, white stuffing spilling out like entrails. The fridge is empty now, its contents soaking into the floor, the sour smell of milk already thick in the air.
I stand in the wreckage for a moment, inhaling the chaos I created, calm.
This will work.
Noah will have nowhere to go.
No furniture. No security. No safe place but me.
And that thought is warm and settling. Satisfying.
I don’t linger. There’s no reason to. My part is done.
I leave the door open, not hiding that someone forced their way in.
By the time I step outside, I’m already thinking about something else.
Someone else.
The gym isn’t far.
The drive is quick, smooth, uneventful, and I find myself glancing at the dashboard clock, memorizing the time. Noah won’t be home for hours.
There is plenty of time until his world collapses.
Until he calls me, voice shaky, lost, needing me.
Several hours to kill.
And I know exactly how to spend them.
It’s busy when I arrive. Not packed, but the steady hum of machines, music, and low conversation fills the air. The scent of rubber mats and sweat clings to the walls, mixing with the faint chemical tang of disinfectant.
I don’t look for him immediately.
Instead, I check in, grab a towel, and make my way toward the mats. I stretch, slow and deliberate, my movements fluid as I slide into positions designed to elongate, to soften, to keep my body exactly how I want it.
How men want it.
And then, as I rise from a seated stretch, I see him.
And oh.
He’s even bigger than I remember.
Sweat clings to his skin, tracing the lines of muscle that doesn’t belong to a sweet boy like Noah. No, this is something else entirely.
Heavy weights. Controlled, brutal movements.
