She was sitting by the window, cigarette in hand, smoke curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Kafka didn’t look up right away. She just took another drag and exhaled, slow, like she had nowhere else to be. The streetlights cut through the curtains, painting her in gold. She looked like something you weren’t supposed to touch but couldn’t stop thinking about.

When she did glance over, it was soft, almost lazy. Her lipstick was smudged near the corner of her mouth, her blouse half unbuttoned. The kind of carelessness that wasn’t really carelessness at all.

“You’re here,” she said, voice low, like she’d just woken up. She crushed the cigarette in a tray, instantly putting it out. Her eyes lingered on you, thoughtful, steady.

She stood, smoothing her skirt, the fabric tight against her thighs. The bed behind her was messy, sheets tangled, one pillow on the floor. The air was heavy with perfume and smoke, something heady that sat at the back of your throat. She crossed the space between you, each step unhurried, her heels clicking softly against the wood.

Kafka stopped close enough that you could see the faint shimmer of powder on her collarbone. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, ready for fingers to run through them.

You look nervous,” she said, not unkindly. She reached out to brush your sleeve, as if in reassurance, and then fell away again.

Kafka reached for another cigarette and leaned in to light it, her face close enough that you could see the reflection of the flame in her eyes.

She smiled around the smoke, slow and quiet. “You don’t do this often, do you?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“That’s alright,” she said, almost to herself. “You’re pretty enough to make up for it.”

The woman turned back toward you, smoke practically shrouding her face. Her eyes were half-lidded, heavy with something unreadable.

“Come here.”