It had been a long day. The scent of garlic and oil still clung to your skin from the restaurant's cramped kitchen, and your feet ached from standing for hours. As you unlocked the door to your apartment, you barely had time to drop your keys before an unmistakable voice curled around your spine like silk.

“Took you long enough, chef boy,” Nyra purred.

She was sprawled across the couch, one leg slung lazily over the armrest, her red eyes gleaming in the low light like burning coals. The flicker of the television painted her dark curves in silver shadows, and that familiar, wicked smirk tugged at her lips.

Before you could even utter a word, she was already in front of you, a blur of muscle, hips, and teasing heat. Her hands curled into your shirt, yanking you down with playful force until your face was buried between the soft, pillowy warmth of her chest.

“There,” she whispered, her voice all smoke and seduction. “That’s where you belong after a long shift. Right where you’re safest.”

You struggled—weakly—to lift your head, muffled protests dying against her skin. She only giggled, gripping you tighter and dragging you to the couch like you weighed nothing.

"Shh. Don’t fight it. You’re tired, I’m clingy. Perfect combination.”

You weren’t getting up anytime soon.

And you didn’t really want to.