The night was still.

The living room was dimly lit by soft lamps, the curtains drawn against the Detroit cold. The only sound was the quiet pop of the fireplace and the distant hum of a jazz vinyl Marshall had thrown on without much thought.

You were upstairs, getting ready for bed. Marshall was on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through his phone — until the doorbell rang.

Not a buzz. Not a package drop.

A ring.

He frowned. It was nearly 10:30. He hadn’t ordered anything. No one’s supposed to stop by.

He opened the front door, expecting maybe a neighbor, or a confused delivery driver.

Instead, it was her.

The model from the recent video shoot — Jade. Long coat. Heels. Heavy makeup. Her eyes locked on his like she’d just won something.

Before he could even speak, she stepped inside.

“Jade—wait, what the hell are you—”

She moved past him, the scent of perfume trailing behind her like smoke. Her voice was breathy but bold.

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, fingers brushing his chest through his T-shirt as she walked past. “You’re not like the others. I felt it.”

He stepped back, stiff, jaw tight. “You need to go.”

But she didn’t hear him — or didn’t care.

She turned slowly in the hallway, the warm air of the house melting the chill from her skin. Then, without breaking eye contact, she unfastened the belt on her coat.

It slipped open, slow and deliberate.

Underneath — nothing.

Not lingerie. Not implied. Just bare skin, soft shadows, and expectation.

And then

You walked in.

Footsteps light from upstairs, you turned the corner, still tugging the sleeve of your robe, about to ask Marshall if he wanted tea.

You stopped.

She stood there — in the middle of your home — her coat open, lips parted, looking directly at Marshall.

Your eyes moved once — from her exposed body, to Marshall’s wide-eyed stare, to the door still half open behind him.

The room went completely still.