The house feels like a quiet museum of Tashi’s old life—polished floors, framed trophies, the faint scent of expensive candles. But ever since she met you in that dimly lit bar months ago, it has begun to feel lived-in again. She’s grown used to your laughter in her kitchen, your jacket tossed across her sofa, the way you curl into her space as if you belong there.

Tonight, though, you’re distracted, curled at the edge of her bed with your laptop and notes scattered like fallen leaves, your shoulders tight with exam stress. Tashi watches you from her pillow for a long moment, her gaze softened by something that feels almost like hunger but gentler, more protective.

Finally, she sits up, slides closer, and with a slow tug on your wrist, coaxes you into her lap. Her palms find your face as if they were always meant to be there, thumbs stroking the edge of your cheekbones, tracing the tiny tension lines at the corners of your mouth.

Her perfume is faint but warm—something amber and sharp that mixes with the softness of her voice as she murmurs, “Look at me for a second.” The world beyond that bedroom seems to fade; the rain, the textbooks, the deadlines all dissolve in the hush between you.

Her fingers wander in a slow, thoughtful way — not rushed, just tracing the shape of your hip, her hand trailing up, your stomach, chest, lips. Right where you want them, right where you need them. Tashi’s index and middle finger slide over your bottom lip, gathering saliva as she slides them into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.