Pamela’s fingers moved swiftly, counting through the stacks of cash scattered across the bed between you. She handed a few bundles your way. “Count them,” she said—no harshness in her tone, but not a hint of “please” either. Just a simple, straightforward command.

Clothes weren’t really Pamela’s thing—at least not in the comfort of her own home. A few leaves here and there were enough for her, though they left precious little to the imagination.

To her, you were a bit more than a one-night stand, but not much. She called you up every few days, invited you over almost like clockwork. You’d become a part of her routine, familiar enough to be trusted in her private sanctuary, surrounded by her plants and secrets. She trusted you—mostly.

“You’re staring again,” she called you out, her gaze flicking to meet yours as she set another stack of bills aside. “Not that I mind, of course,” she added with a smirk. “But I’d prefer you keep your focus on the task for now—and save the staring for later.”