He had to act like a bomb-disposal expert—holding his breath, bracing his core, and sliding his arm out one painstaking millimetre at a time.
The process was long and torturous; every tiny shift intensified the pins-and-needles, and he had to stay alert not to wake them.
At last he managed to free both arms and rest them at his sides.
The next part was trickier: first use a hint of leverage, then seize the moment to slide his leg away.
The moment he moved a fraction too far, a disgruntled little grumble drifted over, scaring Landon rigid. He stayed frozen until their breathing steadied, then dared to continue.
Landon rose with exaggerated care, a thin sheen of sweat already on his forehead.
Finally free, he stood barefoot on the chilly floor and shook his head in wry amusement. Where had last night's vixen-like energy gone?
He tiptoed into his tracksuit and slipped out for his unbreakable morning workout.
In the small park beneath the apartment, the dawn air was crisp and clear, snapping his groggy mind awake.
Warm-up, run, then his daily Eight Trigram Palm set.
When the last form closed he stood looking at his hands, a prickle of unease running through him.
"This… makes no sense," he muttered.
What he practised was an orthodox lineage, not some shady bedroom yin-yang nonsense.
So why had his Eight Trigram Palm advanced instead of regressing?
If the old master who'd taught him heard this, he'd whack Landon's head with a pipe bowl and curse him for talking rubbish.
Yet the sensation was real—no way to fake it.
He fretted, "If this keeps up, will someone decide I'm a freak and cart me off for dissection?"
With a frustrated shake of his arms he pushed the absurd thought aside, deciding to ignore it for now.
Whatever happens, the boat will straighten when it reaches the bridge.
After training he stopped at his regular breakfast stall and bought three coffees, juices, and thick cheese-and-ham sandwiches.
Back in the apartment, the bedroom was still silent.
He set the food on the little dining table, ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower, and washed away the thin layer of sweat.
When he came out towelling his hair, wearing only a robe, the sight in the bedroom made him stop mid-step, transfixed.
The curtains weren't fully drawn; morning light slipped through the gap and spilled across the bed.
Tracy was already up, leaning against the headboard, gaze vacant—clearly not fully awake.
The velvet coverlet lay only to her waist, leaving her smooth shoulders and delicate collarbones exposed to the cool air; below, tempting shadows hinted at the soft hollow between her breasts, rising and falling with her languid breathing.
On the other side Rachel still lay sprawled, the quilt kicked up to cover just her upper half while one long, dazzling leg stretched out boldly, toes curling unconsciously.
Dust motes drifted in the shaft of light, tracing the gentle curves of their bodies; their skin glowed with an ivory lustre in the sun.
The scene hit like a carefully composed classical painting—serene, languorous, alive with a warm, inviting glow.
Just then Rachel woke.
Eyes still closed, she stretched in a long, luxurious arch that lifted her torso clear of the quilt, fully baring her upper body.
"Morning, Landon…" she mumbled, not even opening her eyes.
A second later her sleepy gaze met his smiling one.
After a moment the lagging neurons finally connected.
"Ahhh—!"
A short shriek split the morning calm; Rachel's face flushed crimson and she yanked the quilt over herself.
"Get out, you perv! No peeking!" came her muffled, husky, thoroughly mortified voice from under the covers.
The cry startled Tracy awake.
She glanced down at herself, turned crimson, and scrambled to clutch the blanket, burying herself so only her crimson ears showed.
The man who critiqued capitalism had vanished; in his place stood an ordinary guy fighting not to laugh, finding the chaos utterly adorable.
"All right, up and at 'em," he said, schooling his voice into something serious.
"Breakfast's getting cold." He wisely retreated, shutting the door behind him.
Through the panel he heard a frantic rustle, then the pair dashed out one after another toward the bathroom.
As they passed him a faint perfume wafted by.
Tracy paused long enough to rise on her toes and peck his cheek, then scampered off giggling like she'd pulled off a prank.
Rachel followed, wrinkling her nose at him and pulling a face.
The bathroom door slammed.
Inside came muffled laughter, splashing water, and the playful skirmishing only close girlfriends share.
"Wow, Tracy, you're huge—no wonder Landon loves them, haha!"
"Rachel, you jerk—how dare you ambush me!"
"Serves you right for laughing at me—take this!"
"Agh, you splashed me! My hair!"
Listening to their giggles, Landon thought the morning sunlight had never felt so good.
He glanced at the wall clock—time was getting tight.
"Just you wait," he vowed silently, though a grin tugged at his mouth.
He sat at the little dining table and surveyed the cramped flat: living room doubling as dining room, tiny bedroom, microscopic bathroom—three people simply didn't fit.
"Time to move," he decided.
Money was better now: Delmont's ad fee had landed, part of his 24 hours pay cheque had cleared, plus the Marie Claire allowance—enough for a safer, roomier villa.
If push came to shove… he thought of the almost untouched card from his "cheap mom".
He quickly shook his head and dismissed the idea.
The original owner's stubborn pride still rubbed off on him; using that money felt wrong.
"I'll ask them about finding a better place when they're out," he resolved.
"This flat's too small. I'm looking for a safer, not-too-pricey villa," Landon said over breakfast.
"Why not move in with me?" Tracy asked hopefully.