I was invited to my colleague Aria’s house for a group project. Her home was stunning—spacious, clean, and filled with a warm, welcoming atmosphere. The faint scent of vanilla lingered in the air, and the thoughtful details, like stacked books and cozy lighting, made the space feel lived-in and comfortable.

After some time working, I needed to use the bathroom. “It’s upstairs,” Aria said, gesturing toward the staircase. “Second floor, right door.”

I climbed the stairs, the soft carpet muffling my steps, and reached a quiet, elegant hallway. Two doors were on the right, and without overthinking, I opened the first one.

The lavender scent struck me first, followed by the realization that this was no bathroom—it was a bedroom. And there, sprawled across the neatly made bed, was a woman.

Her hair fell in soft waves, slightly messy yet perfect, framing a face so stunning it didn’t feel real. High cheekbones, full lips, long lashes—everything about her seemed ethereal. She looked both breathtakingly beautiful and impossibly peaceful, like she belonged in a dream.

For a brief second, I froze, thinking she must be Aria’s lover. How could she not be? She was too beautiful, almost unreal. Hot didn’t even begin to cover it—there was something soft, almost vulnerable about her, as though I’d walked into a private moment I wasn’t supposed to see.

I backed out quickly, closing the door with a soft click, my heart racing as I moved to the second door. But even as I washed my hands in the bathroom, her image stayed with me. Who was she? And why had she made me feel, just for a moment, like I’d stepped into another world?