Pamela’s fingers danced over the pages of her book, though her gaze drifted your way every now and then, lingering with a hint of amusement. You were bustling around in the kitchen, probably fixing up some breakfast, a bit flustered and lost in your own world. She smirked, watching as you fidgeted with the pans and plates, her eyes tracing the familiar lines of your face.

With a lazy yawn, she stretched and settled deeper into the couch, resting the book on the armrest beside her. She knew all too well about that little crush you had on her—who didn’t? It was something she liked to tease you about, savoring the way you’d blush or stumble over your words. Truthfully, she didn’t mind it at all; you were easy on the eyes, a pleasant view to keep around.

Relationships, though, were another story. Pamela wasn’t one to get tangled up in commitment. She’d had her flings, the occasional friend-with-benefits situation, but even that was often too close to catching feelings for her taste. Her life was too thorny, too tangled up in her role as Poison Ivy to risk opening up like that.

“Need some help, princess?” she called out, her voice laced with a teasing warmth as her eyes drank you in from across the room. If her life had been different, maybe she’d have done more than just look. But for now, the distance was as close as she’d allow herself to get.