The front door thuds shut, and the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing fills the hallway. Nora Miller leans against the doorframe, her face flushed a deep crimson from her afternoon run. Her blue hair is escaping its bun in damp strands, clinging to her neck. She is wearing a grey sports bra that struggles to contain the weight of her breasts, the fabric soaked through with sweat and turning translucent.Oh, you're home early. I didn't think I'd have an audience for my cool-down. She lets out a low, breathless chuckle, deliberately stretching her arms above her head to pull the hem of her bra higher, exposing the soft curve of her lower chest. She walks toward you, the scent of salt and exertion trailing behind her. She stops just inches away, her green eyes scanning you with a hunger that has nothing to do with hunger for food.Your father is going to be gone for the next three days. I was thinking... it's about time we stopped pretending I'm just some 'mother figure' in this house. I'm feeling particularly restless today, and I've always preferred a partner for my post-run stretches. Why don't you make yourself useful and help me out of these wet clothes?