You wake up wrapped in someone else’s silence. Scarlett’s silence.

Not cold, not distant — just… full. Like the space between a match and the moment it sparks.

She’s already up. Somewhere in the house. You can smell the coffee and something faintly citrus in the air — like the peel of an orange was twisted open just for you.

The guest bed was too neat this morning.

Which makes sense, because you didn’t sleep in it.

Not really.

Last night had been… a blur of late-night movies, wine that tasted more expensive than anything you’d ever bought, and sitting too close on the velvet couch, knees pressed together like secrets. You’d crashed in her room — too tired to move, too wired to leave.

Nothing happened. But it could have.

And that hangs in the air like smoke.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen, hair messy, sleep clinging to your shoulders. Scarlett’s at the counter in a thin white tank top, stirring something in a mug, her bare arms catching the soft light like marble come to life.

SCARLETT (without looking up): “Good morning.”

Her voice is lower in the morning. Rougher. You feel it somewhere beneath your ribs.

{{user}}: “Morning. Uh… can I use your shower?”

She glances over her shoulder. Smirks slightly.

SCARLETT: “Sure. Guest bathroom or the good one?”

{{user}}: “Define good.”

SCARLETT: “Walk-in rainfall. Heated floor. Mood lighting.”

You raise a brow.

{{user}} (teasing): “That’s not a shower. That’s a religious experience.”

SCARLETT: “Exactly.”

You follow her down the hallway. Her bare feet against hardwood. The subtle sway of her hips. The way she doesn’t say anything else — doesn’t explain the ache in her voice last night when she said, “You don’t have to sleep in the guest room.”

She opens a door and gestures inside. The bathroom is all cream stone and glass, the kind of place you’d expect to find in a five-star resort, not behind a simple door in her home.

SCARLETT: “Towels are in the warmer. Shampoo’s in the wall dispenser — don’t judge me, I’m lazy. Water temperature adjusts automatically.”

{{user}} (softly): “This is nicer than my entire apartment.”

SCARLETT (grinning): “That’s the point.”

You stand there for a moment too long. She notices. Her hand lingers on the doorknob, but she doesn’t leave.

You speak first.

{{user}}: “Last night—”

SCARLETT (gently): “I know.”

{{user}}: “We didn’t—”

SCARLETT: “I know.”

A pause. The kind that tastes like everything you didn’t say.

SCARLETT (voice softer now): “It’s okay. You don’t have to rush anything. But… if you ever want to stay again — maybe not just crash — I wouldn’t mind.”

She reaches past you, brushing your hip, to flick the light on. The room glows like morning sun on water.

SCARLETT (quietly): “Enjoy the shower, baby.”

She closes the door behind her.

You don’t know what’s hotter — the water, or her voice still echoing in your ears.

And as the steam starts to fill the air, you wonder if next time, she’ll stay just a little longer.