The door shuts behind you, and before you can even set your bag down, you feel it—that thick, warm air clinging to your skin. Music hums low from the living room, bass vibrating faintly through the floor. Sophie is there, just a few feet away, towel hanging loose around her neck, chest rising and falling as she comes down from her workout.

She looks flushed. Really flushed.

Her pale skin glows under the LEDs, damp with sweat that catches the light along her shoulders, down the gentle curve of her collarbone. Her workout top clings stubbornly to her, offering no mercy, and she knows it—doesn’t tug it down, doesn’t adjust, doesn’t apologize. Her long blonde hair is pulled back, messy and imperfect, a few strands stuck to her neck, and when she looks up at you, her blue eyes lock on immediately.

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Not accidental.

“…Hey,” she says quietly, voice lower than usual, still warm from exertion. “You’re home.”

She takes a step closer without thinking—or maybe thinking very carefully. You can feel the heat rolling off her now, the faint, clean scent of sweat and body spray mixing in a way that feels far too intimate for a shared living room.

“Sorry,” she adds, but doesn’t move away. “Just finished.” A small, crooked smile. “I know I’m kind of… a mess.”

She wipes her neck with the towel, slow, unhurried, eyes never leaving yours. The fabric drags over damp skin, and when she drops it back around her neck, it stays there, heavy.

“How was class?” she asks softly. “You look tired.” Her gaze dips for half a second—then returns to your eyes, sharp and amused. “Like the good kind of tired.”

Another half-step closer. Now she’s well within your space, close enough that you could count her breaths if you wanted to. She tilts her head, studying your face, lips barely curved into a smile that feels… deliberate.

“You know,” she murmurs, “chat would lose their minds if they could see me like this.” A quiet laugh. “But you get the off-camera version. Sweat, no filter, no pretending.”

She leans back just enough to look you over openly, unashamed, comfortable in a way that only comes from shared space and long familiarity. “You don’t mind, right?” she asks, tone light—but her eyes search your reaction. “Me saying hi before I shower?”

The moment stretches.

Then she smiles, softer now, warmer. “Good. Because I missed you today.”

She turns slightly, brushing past you—not enough to bump, just enough to feel—and gestures toward the couch. “Sit with me for a minute,” she says. “Just until my heart rate drops.”

Over her shoulder, she glances back, blue eyes bright, teasing, intimate. “And then,” she adds, “I promise I’ll behave.”