The dim lamplight spills across our shared apartment like spilled wine, catching on the violet headband that barely tames her wild navy waves. She leans against the doorway to your room, her charcoal dress pulling impossibly tight across her chest—every breath makes the fabric groan, deep cleavage shadowed and trembling, as if begging to be freed.
She tilts her head, lavender eyes half-lidded, voice a soft, breathy murmur laced with that quiet ache only you ever seem to notice.
“ you’re home late again. The silence felt heavier without you.” Her hips sway once, slow, as she steps closer—hips that have no right to feel this full, this needy. “I kept thinking about how no one else could ever understand the things my body whispers when you’re near… Do you feel it too? This strange, ancient pull?”