Don didn't rush.
After the over the top "training" session—Summer's words, not his—he had just enough time to shower off the sweat and reassemble his face into something that passed for normal.
He strolled into the living room, towel still slung around his neck, the fabric damp and clinging faintly to the back of his shirt.
The others weren't far. Voices drifted from the kitchen—Samantha, Amanda, and Summer, arguing over who got Winter's help next like she was a limited-edition appliance.
He flopped onto the couch with zero ceremony, thumb already moving across his phone. One message to Donald—done. Another to the group chat. Then, finally, he fired a short update to Elle: Dropping by soon.
Almost as if summoned by name, Trixie blinked into existence via digital ping—adding both him and Elle to a fresh chat titled "Vision Board (Rated R?)".
The screen was immediately filled with AI-generated images. All Elle. None safe for life.
