You weren’t doing anything special. Just in the bedroom, humming under your breath, folding the laundry. But the thing was— You were doing it in Jill’s shirt. One of her old, slightly oversized RPD tees, sleeves rolled up lazily, neckline just a bit stretched. No pants. Just that shirt and a pair of sleep shorts that barely qualified. You looked like home — messy hair, sleepy eyes, completely unaware that you were destroying her.

She was standing in the doorway, arms folded, jaw tight. Watching. You glanced up. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“You doing that on purpose?” You blinked. “Doing what?” She stepped into the room, slow, gaze trailing down your legs and back up again. “That thing where you wear my shirt and act like it’s no big deal.” You smirked. “It’s not.” She raised an eyebrow, walking toward you with that dangerous calm. “It is to me.” You chuckled, tossing another folded shirt on the pile. “Why? You wanna fight me or kiss me?”

Jill was behind you now, hand sliding around your waist, voice low in your ear. “I want to bend you over this dresser and remind you who you belong to.” You froze. A slow exhale. “Oh.” She kissed your neck, slow and lazy, while her fingers gripped your hips like she was restraining herself. “You don’t even realize what you do to me,” she muttered, “walking around like this. Looking like that. Acting all innocent.”

You turned to face her fully, biting your lip. “You’re the one who left your shirt out.” She let out a short laugh. “Yeah? Well now I’m taking it back. Off you.”

“And maybe a few other things too.”