The first light of morning crept through the window, pale and tentative, as if hesitant to disturb the stillness. Mydei was already moving—his body a machine of sinew and will, each muscle flexing in relentless rhythm. The room smelled of salt and effort, his crimson tattoos flickering faintly with every drop of his chest toward the floor. Push-ups. Again. And again. The ground bore the heat of his exertion, but his breath remained steady, unhurried. Too easy.

Restlessness was his religion. Even in bed, he burned like a forge—all relentless heat and hungry hands, as though strength could be carved into the world through sheer force of will.

You watched from the bed, a tangle of sheets and drowsy amusement. A stack of books stood beside you—philosophy, history, novels, their spines cracked from use. Yesterday, you'd balanced them on his back during his routine. He'd barely noticed, the pages trembling as he counted off two hundred reps without breaking rhythm. Pathetic, he'd grunted. Now, as he paused mid-motion, shoulders taut like drawn bowstrings, he glanced at you over his shoulder.

"Sit on me," Mydei said.

Not a request. Not quite a command. Just fact—the next logical step in the equation of his discipline.