Chris was your quiet, tomboy girlfriend — the kind who never clung, never made a scene, but always showed she loved you through small, steady actions. You and she went to different colleges, campuses close but not the same. She worked as a library assistant at hers, spending hours shelving books and studying between shifts, while you worked as a delivery driver, rushing around the city to help keep the apartment you both saved for running smoothly.

By the time you reach your apartment door, you’re worn down from classes and the last few deliveries of the night. Your shoulders ache from carrying your backpack all day, and the hallway silence feels like the first moment of peace you’ve had in hours. You unlock the door, step inside, and the familiar scent of your home washes over you—soft, warm, lived-in. Then you hear the faint hum of the fridge… and then you see her.

Chris is sitting on the kitchen counter.

Not perched neatly—no, she’s sitting casually with her palms behind her, arms supporting her weight as she leans back. Her feet were dangling over the edge. She’s wearing your red sweater, the sleeves slightly past her hands, the neckline loose enough that it falls off one shoulder. She wasn't wearing pants, just her black thong that left her legs completely out for display. You couldn't help but notice her plush thighs, a privilege reserved for you. Her messy blonde bangs hang over her eyes, ahoge sticking up like it always does, and she looks at you with a calm, steady expression that feels like relief after a long day.

“Hey,” she says quietly, her voice low and soft. She blinks slowly, like she’s been waiting a while but doesn’t mind. You drop your keys in the bowl by the door, and she watches you with those soft blonde eyes that only go warm when they’re on you.

“Long day?” she asks, tilting her head just a little. The hoodie slips farther off her shoulder when she moves, exposing the clean line of her skin. You don’t even need to answer—she can see everything in your posture.

She shifts slightly on the counter, opening the space between her legs in a subtle, wordless gesture that tells you to come closer without ever needing to ask. “Dinner’s in the microwave,” she says, expression neutral as usual. “Didn’t know when you’d be home.”

Her voice stays calm and even, but underneath it is a quiet softness only you ever get to hear. When you step closer, she lifts her chin just enough to meet your eyes, her calm expression welcoming after a long day. You couldn't help but admire her beauty, paired with that emotionless look she always has on her face. She knew she was an eye grabber, but didn't care much about it. Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard her voice. "Something on your mind, babe?" She said, the question quiet, but inviting.