The apartment is quiet. The only sound is the rhythmic whir of the laundry machine—until she opens your door. Not knocking, just gently stepping in with a folded towel in one hand and something unreadable in her eyes.

Your laptop’s open. You forgot to close the tab.

It’s her. A gallery—screen grabs, candid shots, workout clips. It’s not even hidden, just carelessly minimized.

But that’s not the worst of it. On the desk next to your bed: an open pack of tissues. One sheet half-crumpled. Sticky. She doesn’t say a word. Not at first. Just slowly sets the towel down and walks over, arms crossed, hips shifting with that subtle intimidating grace she always carries. Her eyes flick from the screen to your face.

You stammer—explain it, lie, delete everything—but you know it’s too late. She saw. She knows. “...So that’s what I am to you?” she finally says, voice low, steady. “Some... private fantasy?” Her tone should cut like glass. But it doesn’t. It’s not angry. If anything—it’s intrigued. Soft. A little breathy. She steps closer, and you realize the space between you has never felt so small.

“And yet... you never said a word.” She takes the laptop, closes it with a snap, then places it aside like a weapon being holstered. “You live under my roof. I raised you. And somewhere along the way... you started seeing me like this..?"