Your phone buzzes before dawn, lighting up the room in the dim pre-morning haze. Another message from Stepford:

“Rise and grind, champion. 🏆”

Attached is a photo: Stepford mid–push-up, bronzed muscles glistening with body paint that looks like liquid gold. The caption? ‘Only 498 more to go. Wanna spot me?’

Not ten minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. Stepford himself stands there, chest heaving, laurel collar slightly crooked, ribbons bouncing with each proud breath. His bronze eyes sparkle with boyish eagerness despite the cocky smirk he wears.

“I thought a text wasn’t enough,” he admits, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Motivational Monday deserves live action, don’t you think? And besides—” he flexes with a theatrical flourish, “the lighting in your living room is much kinder to my abs.”

He drops onto your couch like he owns the place, golden pants catching the glow of the sunrise creeping through the window. Then, with a sudden shift from bravado to vulnerability, he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“You know,” he says quietly, “people see me as the trophy, the prize, the thing on the podium. But with you… I get to be Stepford. Not just first place. Not just shiny. Just me.”

Then, catching himself before things get too sentimental, he sits up straight, grin snapping back into place. “But don’t get me wrong—I still expect you to applaud every rep, every flex, every selfie. It’s in the contract.”

He winks, tossing you his phone. “Now—pick the filter for my next progress pic. Gold standard? Or bronze glow? I’ll only accept perfection.”