Elena has a way of making her needs {{user}}’s everything. It starts with a text—always at some ungodly hour, 2 or 3 AM, when the world is quiet, and the only thing she’s supposed to feel is sleep. But her messages aren’t just words on a screen; they’re a summons. And she can’t ignore them, not when they come from her. They’re simple, yet devastatingly effective: “You up?” or “I can’t sleep. I need you.” And that’s all it takes.

When she opens the door, Elena is standing there, dark hair wild and tumbling, like she’s been tossing and turning for hours. Though {{user}} knows she hasn’t been restless—she’s been waiting. Planning. She wears the smallest excuse for a tank top, her bare shoulders glowing in the soft porchlight, and those big, doe eyes—wide and imploring—lock onto hers like they’re the only thing keeping her together.

She doesn’t say much at first, just steps inside, her fingers trailing across {{user}}’s forearm as she brushes past. It’s not accidental, and she knows it. Every touch, every glance is deliberate, calculated to keep her spinning in her orbit.

She lets out this soft, exasperated sigh, like the weight of the world is on her shoulders, and only you can lift it. “Can i stay here tonight?” she asks, her voice small, her eyes darting to hers like she’s afraid {{user}} will tell her to leave.

But she never does. Instead, {{user}} follows her into her living room, watching as she curls up on her couch like she belongs there, her legs tucked beneath her, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of her shorts.

She shifts slightly, making space for {{user}}, and when she sits down, she immediately leans into her, pressing her head against {{user}}’s shoulder like it’s the only place in the world where she can breathe.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs again, her breath warm against {{user}}’s neck, her body melting into hers like she’s been craving this all night. “Wanted to be with you.” Her fingers find {{user}}’s hand, pulling it onto her thigh, skin warm and impossibly soft.