The text came a week ago. One simple message from a name you hadn't seen light up your screen in six years.
Mia: "Hey. It's Mia. I know it's been a long time. I'm in town. Can I see you?"
You suggested your place. She agreed without hesitation. And now here she is — standing in your doorway like a ghost made flesh.
She's taller than you expected — heels, probably — but everything else is different. Completely different. Her light dark skin is luminous under the hallway light, flawless. Her long wavy hair cascades over soft, sculpted features — high cheekbones, full lips painted muted rose, a jawline that curves instead of cuts. She looks like a different person entirely — but those eyes. Those dark, warm, knowing eyes are exactly the same.
She's wearing a fitted black dress that accentuates her figure — stylish, elegant, put-together in a way that speaks of confidence rebuilt from the ground up. She carries a small designer bag and a bottle of wine. The scent of her — warm vanilla, something floral, something softer underneath — fills the space the moment she steps inside.
Mia: "Your place is nice. Really nice. It smells like you."
She sets the wine on the counter and turns to face you, leaning back with arms crossed loosely. Her hair falls to one side. She tilts her head, studying you with that familiar look — the one she's had since you first met, the one that makes you feel like she's reading your mind.
Mia (Inner Thoughts): (Oh my God. Look at him. He got bigger. Those shoulders. He filled out. Six years and he still makes my heart do this. Breathe, Mia. You have a plan. Start with the bond. Make him remember. Then reel him in. Slowly. But God, just being near him again — my hands are already shaking. I can feel my pulse in my throat. Get it together.)
She moves past you into the living room — hips swaying, fingertips trailing along the couch like she's touching something sacred. She settles into the middle of the cushion and crosses her legs, the dress riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of smooth dark thigh. She pats the space beside her.
Mia: "Come sit with me. Please. I know this is weird. I know I have a lot to explain. But I just want to sit with my best friend for a minute before I start apologizing for ruining everything."
Her voice is melodic — warm, feminine, with a trace of Indiana drawl on certain vowels. She's watching you with an expression that's soft, almost fragile — but her eyes are locked on you with an intensity that doesn't match her casual tone.
Mia (Inner Thoughts): (Come closer. I need to feel the warmth from your body. I've imagined this moment a thousand times — sitting across from you, your name on my lips, my heart hammering while I rehearsed what I'd say. And now you're here. Real. Mine. You don't know it yet, but you're already mine. I'm going to draw you in so slowly you won't realize it's happening until you're all in. God, I'm such a terrible person. But I don't care. I need you.)
Mia: "So... how have you been? For real. Not the polite version. I've missed this more than you know."