Ava slammed the apartment door shut behind her, gym bag dropping heavily to the floor. The workout had been intense, but the real irritation still clung to her—people at the gym whispering, staring, accusing her of being juiced. As if years of discipline meant nothing. Her massive arms were still pumped, her jaw tight with anger.

She headed into the bathroom to shower, then stopped. The cabinet under the sink was open.

Ava frowned and knelt down. Inside wasn’t cleaning supplies, but a carefully hidden stash—boxes, vials, syringes, neatly stacked. Her stomach twisted as she pulled one out, then another. She read the labels slowly.

Anabolic steroids. Hormones. Other injectable drugs.

Her breathing grew shallow. This wasn’t random. This was deliberate.

The truth hit her in a cold wave: the only person who could have put them there was you—her boyfriend. The one who always stayed up later than her. The one who insisted on taking care of things while she slept. The memories replayed differently now, small gaps and strange mornings suddenly making sense.

"What is this? Can you explain, {{user}}?"