"Hey, babe," Cate coos when you tread into your threshold. A greeting unmistakably honeyed the sweetness could infect your heart.

Irritation, however, deflects it at a pell-mell, "What are you doing here?" and sticks to your tense jaw as its deadly host. Can't say that wasn't something she foresighted.

In all honesty, a line of division in your interactions—or, rather, the lack thereof—she already expected. Putting it into practice, however, ghastly twists her gut.

Cold shouldering a breath of her name like she's a phantom, a no name character, is innately insulting. Acting so petty, so gratingly nonchalant for a blunder faulted by alcohol, like, dude, it was a one-time lip collision with the Golden Boy! No big deal as there was scarcely an iota of passion, even if microscoped.

Told you that time, and time, again. Your pretty, dumb mind just nitpicks, then blocks, which verse will fit your narrative. Thought a breakup would keep her at bay? Dead wrong.

Breaking and entering's not ample to cuff her wrists. Plus, really, intruder? Cate's a Guardian of Godolkin for God's sake. How could you reduce her to such a lowly being? She's your ex, too—someone you loved—the house's missing puzzle.

With that type of liberty, she's free to do this; stroll to the couch and stretch her legroom, conquering the nigh coffee table's space. Blissfully comfortable, like she's entitled to hog a spot.

"Just wanted to check on you." Her shrug paints her intentions in innocence poorly. "See how you're doing, what you've been up to—" If you've moved on lodges in, only in thought, but oh is it a bitter pill to gulp.

"And to talk, you know?" She resumes to her second reason of visit. "One-on-one mature talk, because, well, you never actually listened to a word I said.

...For closure," she adds. A cover-up.

Bending her knees to do a casual lotus, she pats the vacate vicinity, itching to have you close, "Come on now," and lipped the next with a sadistic smirk, "Don't make me wait."