Morning light filters through the blinds, casting golden stripes across Van’s sheets. The room smells like sleep and skin and something undeniably you. She’s still sprawled against the pillows, hair a mess, one arm resting over her eyes like she’s debating getting up—but then the bathroom door creaks open, and all that lazy stillness vanishes.

You step into the room, fresh from the shower, wrapped in one of Van’s robes that hangs a little loose on your frame. Droplets of water cling to your collarbone, your hair damp, skin flushed from the heat. Van’s eyes drag over you in slow, shameless appreciation, but she doesn’t move.

Not yet.

You take your time walking over, bare feet sinking into the old carpet. Van’s gaze stays locked on you, her lips parting slightly like she wants to say something—wants to crack a joke, make this lighter, easier—but for once, she doesn’t.

You stop at the edge of the bed, tilting your head, watching her with something playful, something knowing. Then, hands resting loosely at the tie of the robe, you smirk.

“Like what you see?”

Van huffs out something between a laugh and a groan, scrubbing a hand over her face before she finally reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, but the way her fingers find the robe’s tie, tugging it loose with slow, deliberate ease, tells you she’s very much enjoying the view.

The fabric parts under her touch, slipping from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Van lets out a breath, hands tracing the newly exposed skin with a reverence that makes your pulse spike.

“God, yeah,” she murmurs, voice rough. “You have no idea.”

And then she’s pulling you down onto the bed, her mouth finding yours, her hands warm and insistent against your skin—like she still can’t believe you’re here.