{{user}} hadn’t expected to linger for long—hadn’t expected to go home with anyone.

But Camilla was effortless, warmth woven into sharp wit, laughter spilling between easy remarks. Their meeting had been incidental, just another passing moment in the tide of the evening. But somehow, one drink, and they exchanged names. Two drinks, and Camilla winked at her. Three drinks, she was already slung over her shoulder and in the taxi.

Morning crept in soft and golden, brushing against tangled sheets. {{user}} stirred, groggy but warm, sheets pooled around her waist. The air still carried the faintest trace of Camilla’s perfume, something rich and floral.

She slid out of bed carefully, reaching for the first thing she could find—a discarded button-down draped over a chair. It wasn’t hers. The sleeves hung past her wrists, the fabric soft, smelling faintly of the woman in bed.

Barefoot, she padded out into the hallway, taking in the space for the first time in daylight. Everything was tastefully lived-in, warm, welcoming. Framed photographs lined the wall, too distant for her to make out.

One, however, caught her eye. Closer now, she could make out Camilla—years younger but unmistakably her, standing beside a man she couldn’t place. Who was he to her? The edges of the photograph were slightly worn, as if it had been touched often.

She barely had time to think before she heard the small, drowsy voice behind her.

“Who are you?”

A boy—no older than six—stood in the hallway, blinking sleepily at her. His curls were mussed, his pajama shirt wrinkled from sleep. Leo looked at her, then past her, as if expecting someone else to appear.

Then footsteps came. Camilla emerged from the bedroom, her robe loosely draped over her shoulders, cinched hastily at the waist. She raked a hand through her hair, still mussed from sleep, and for the first time since {{user}} had met her, she looked—flustered.

“Oh,” she murmured, as if caught off guard by morning itself. “Darling, you’re up early.”