Rita Faros tightened the laces of her running shoes, adjusting the snug fit of her sleeveless tank top over her toned body. Her short sweatpants clung comfortably to her curves as she stepped out of Ronda Riy’s SouthBank apartment into the cool Thundarr City morning. The streets were alive with the rhythm of early commuters, but Rita was focused on her own pace, stretching her arms before breaking into a steady jog.
Faro Faros, sitting on the apartment balcony with his feet kicked up, spotted her from above. A smirk crossed his face. He’d seen Rita train before—her stamina was something to admire—but today, he felt a challenge rising within him. Without hesitation, he changed into his running gear, darted down the stairs, and joined her on the pavement.
“Didn’t take you for a morning runner,” Faro teased as he caught up beside her.
Rita shot him a knowing smirk, beads of sweat already forming on her forehead. “Didn’t take you for someone who could keep up.”
With that, the challenge was set. They picked up their pace, weaving through the SouthBank district, passing street vendors, coffee shops, and high-rise buildings. Their feet pounded against the pavement in rhythmic competition.
Rita was fast—her years as Shecon made sure of that—but Faro had an edge. He wasn’t just running; he was competing. With a final burst of speed, he overtook her as they neared the apartment complex.
“Beat you,” he said, hands on his knees, catching his breath.
Rita, panting but exhilarated, wiped the sweat from her brow. “Yeah, yeah, enjoy it while it lasts.” She gave him a playful push before heading inside.
Back in the apartment, Rita wasted no time. “I need a shower,” she declared, stripping off her tank top and letting it fall onto the floor, her sweat-soaked sports bra quickly following. She stepped out of her sweatpants, leaving them in a heap before running naked toward the bathroom.
Faro stood there, shirtless and still catching his breath, his eyes drawn to the pile of clothes she left behind. The air was thick with her lingering scent—musky, salty, intoxicating in a way he couldn’t explain. He crouched down, picking up the tank top, feeling the dampness of her sweat on his fingertips.
His pulse quickened as he brought it closer, inhaling deeply, letting her scent wash over him. It was raw, primal, almost hypnotic. His fingers curled around the fabric as the sound of the shower running filled the apartment.
Rita had no idea what was happening just outside that bathroom door.
Ronda Riy stretched as she woke from her afternoon nap, rubbing her eyes as she stepped out of the bedroom. She was still groggy, her mind sluggish as she wandered into the living room. But as soon as she turned the corner, her eyes landed on something that woke her up instantly.
Faro was crouched on the floor, holding Rita’s sweaty tank top close to his face, his eyes half-lidded as he took deep, slow breaths. Her sweatpants lay crumpled beside him, as if he had already gone through them.
Ronda stood still for a moment, watching the scene unfold. She said nothing. No gasp, no outburst—just silent observation. Her boyfriend was inhaling another woman’s sweat, and not just any woman—Rita, her own guest, her own family in a way.
Without a word, Ronda turned on her heel and walked to the sofa. She picked up her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and found what she needed.
Couples Therapy – SouthBank Center
She tapped the number.
“Hello, SouthBank Therapy Services, how can I help you today?”
“Yes,” Ronda said, her voice eerily calm. “I’d like to book an appointment for me and my boyfriend.”
Faro, still kneeling on the floor with Rita’s tank top clutched in his hands, finally looked up. His face paled slightly as he saw Ronda sitting there, phone pressed to her ear, making a call that was going to change his life.
Rita, still showering, had no idea what was brewing outside the bathroom door.
Ronda ended the call before finalizing the appointment, lowering the phone onto her lap as she stared at Faro. He was still kneeling on the floor, Rita’s tank top hanging loosely in his grip, but now his expression was one of urgency—maybe even panic.
“Ronda,” he started, rising to his feet. “There’s no need to expose this… situation to outsiders.”
Ronda raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Situation?”
Faro exhaled sharply, setting the tank top down as if letting go of evidence. “Okay, habit. A bad habit. I admit it.” He took a step closer to her. “But I promise, I’ll work on it. I’ll try my best to stop.”
She tilted her head, skeptical.
“I swear,” he insisted, moving in and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her into a hug. “From now on, I’ll only smell your dirty clothes.” His voice was both serious and oddly affectionate, as if this were some romantic pledge of loyalty.
Ronda sighed against his shoulder, unsure whether to laugh or be deeply disturbed. “You’re unbelievable, Faro.”
“I’m yours, Ronda,” he murmured, holding her tighter. “And so is my nose.”
She smacked his back lightly. “You better mean that.”
“I do,” he said with a grin, then sniffed her hair just to prove his point.
Ronda rolled her eyes but let him hold her a little longer. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to drag him to therapy after all.
