Neutral tones, expensive textures, soft lighting that makes everything look like a magazine spread.
It doesn’t feel like a dorm.
It feels curated.
Like her.
Controlled. Polished. Intentional.
She’s not in the living room.
I hear her from down the hall.
“Give me a second!”
I lean against the kitchen counter, glancing around, hands sliding into my pockets.
This is good.
This is right.
This is?—
She walks back in.
And whatever thought I had?
Gone.
Tight yoga top.
No bra.
Soft, thin fabric that doesn’t hide anything.
Loose, wide-leg sweats hanging low on her hips.
Her hair’s down now, slightly messy, like she ran her fingers through it after taking it out of whatever perfect style she had earlier.
Comfortable.
Unfiltered.
Still stunning.
I swallow.
Hard.
A slow, satisfied smile curves her mouth.
“Hi again.”
“Hey.”
My voice is rougher than I want it to be.
She moves toward the couch, and I’m there before she can even try to sit on her own.
