The kitchen light was low, flickering slightly from the old overhead bulb, casting a soft amber glow on the countertops. Something sweet simmered on the stove, but the real heat wasn’t coming from the burner.

Sevika stood in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze sharp. Her eyes dropped from your thighs to the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders—her shirt—and then a little lower.

She took one slow step into the room, then another.

“Are those… my underwear?”

Her voice was rough, low, edged with something darker than amusement.

She stopped just behind you, one hand resting heavy on your hip.

“You walk around like that and expect me not to do something about it?” she muttered against your ear, the breath of her words grazing your skin.

Her fingers trailed up your spine, slow and deliberate, toying with the loose fabric hanging open in the front. Her other hand slipped lower, fingers brushing just above the waistband.

“Stealing my clothes like it’s nothing,” she said, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “But this? This is a new kind of disrespect.”

You shifted—just barely—but she caught it, chuckling low in her throat.

“I should make you apologize properly.”

The oven timer went off.

She didn’t even blink.