I just need you functional

The next morning...

The sunlight filtering through my bedroom windows was too bright.

Which meant one thing—I had drunk too much last night.

Not too much, but enough that my head felt hazy, my body too comfortable, and my memories pleasantly blurred.

The night had been exactly what I needed.

The bar had been packed, music pulsing through the air, the kind of bass-heavy rhythm that crawled into your bones and made you move.

I had spent the first hour drinking lazily at the counter, a whiskey in hand, watching the crowd, letting the electricity of the night settle into my skin.

People had recognized me, of course.

They always did.

Some had come up for pictures, others for conversation, and some had come for something else entirely.

And I had indulged.

I had flirted, danced, lost myself in the effortless ease of being desired.

By midnight, I had found someone with a gorgeous smile and even better hands, a woman who had leaned in just close enough to whisper something dangerous in my ear.

And for a few hours, I had let myself enjoy it. But by the time dawn had started to creep into the horizon, I had gone home alone.

Not because I had to.

But because, for some reason, my mind had drifted elsewhere.

I sighed, dragging a hand over my face, cracking one eye open to glance at my phone.

7:00 AM.

I had training at 8:30.

I mentally decided that I was not going.

Instead, I shut my eyes again, burying myself deeper into my blankets.

And then—

A knock.

A loud knock.

I groaned. Who the hell—

I barely had time to process it before—

"Freya."

My eyes snapped open.

And standing inside my room, looking absolutely untouched by mortal suffering, was Lydia Whitmore.

I stared at her, my hungover brain struggling to catch up.

Perfectly dressed, as always.

Crisp white blouse, black pencil skirt, her hair styled into flawless waves, her sharp green eyes completely unimpressed.

How the fuck was she here?

I sat up slowly, blinking at her like she was some fever-induced hallucination.

"How—" My voice was rough, sleep-heavy. "How did you get in?"

She lifted her hand and wordlessly dangled a spare key in front of me.

I blinked again.

"The coach gave it to me this morning," she said matter-of-factly.

I squinted at her.

She didn't look like she was joking.

But that—that couldn't be right.

I ran a hand through my hair, my brain scrambling to process what was happening.

"You—" I pointed at her, eyes narrowing. "You have a key to my house?"

"Yes."

"That's insane."

Lydia didn't even blink.

"What's insane," she said coolly, crossing her arms, "is that you planned to skip training today."

I groaned, flopping back onto my pillows.

"I hate this."

"I don't care," she said smoothly.

I lifted a hand to dramatically wave her away. "Leave me alone."

Silence.

Then—

A sharp tug on my blankets.

I bolted upright.

"Oh, hell no—"

Lydia had gripped the edge of my covers and was slowly pulling them off me.

I grabbed onto them, glaring. "Are you actually trying to fight me right now?"

She lifted a single brow. "Are you actually trying to act like a child?"

I gasped, offended.

"You are insufferable," I muttered.

"And yet, I'm the one who's awake and dressed," she replied.

I groaned, flopping onto my back again.

"You have ten seconds to get out of my room," I mumbled into my pillow.

"You have twenty minutes to shower and get ready," she countered.

I peeked up at her. "Or what?"

Her green eyes sharpened.

"Or I drag you out of bed myself."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Neither of us blinked.

And then—

I sighed. Heavily.

"You're the worst person I've ever met," I muttered.

"That's nice," she said. "Now move."

With great suffering, I finally swung my legs out of bed, stretching as I stood up.

Lydia stepped back, completely unmoved by my struggle.

"I'll be waiting in your living room," she said. "You have twenty minutes."

I rolled my eyes, dragging myself toward the bathroom.

I turned back at the door, squinting at her suspiciously.

"You're way too invested in my morning routine."

She didn't even look up from her watch.

"That's because you don't have one," she replied smoothly.

I muttered a series of curses under my breath before shutting the bathroom door behind me.

The cold shower hit like a shock to the system, forcing away the last remnants of exhaustion.

By the time I stepped out, I felt half-human again.

I pulled on a simple black hoodie and joggers, running a towel through my damp hair as I made my way downstairs.

And the first thing I saw?

Lydia, sitting at my kitchen table, with breakfast already set out.

I stopped mid-step.

Frowned.

"…Did you just break into my house and cook?"

Lydia looked completely unbothered as she took a sip of coffee.

"I had it delivered," she corrected.

I glanced at the food.

And froze.

It was my favorite.

Everything.

Exactly how I liked it.

I slowly turned to her.

"How the hell did you know what I eat?"

Lydia took another slow sip of coffee.

"I know everything," she said simply.

My eyes narrowed.

I had no idea if she was messing with me or not.

I sat down, grabbing a fork, still watching her suspiciously.

"If you're trying to get on my good side," I said, "it's working."

"I'm not," she said. "I just need you functional."

I snorted. "You say that, but deep down? You're totally obsessed with me."

She didn't even blink.

"Eat your food," she said.

I smirked but didn't argue, digging in.

The moment I took my first bite, I nearly moaned.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Lydia, of course, was already pulling out her notebook, flipping through perfectly organized pages.

I eyed her warily.

"You're planning something," I said.

She lifted a brow. "I have your new schedule ready."

I swallowed my food.

Then grinned.

"God, you just won't stop, huh?"

Lydia's expression didn't change.

"No," she said.