She walked into the room like she wasn’t doing anything suspicious — hair still damp from the shower, skin glowing faintly in the soft lamplight, and my pyjama shorts slung low on her hips. The ones I’d been searching for all week. The ones that always rode up a little, soft from years of wear. She wore them like they belonged to her, like she hadn’t just hijacked a small piece of my wardrobe and my sanity.

I sat up, eyebrows raised, eyes trailing down without meaning to. The shorts clung to her just right—loose in the places that made them look careless, and most definitely looked a bit big on her. She sipped from her water bottle like nothing was out of the ordinary.

"{{user}}, aren't those mine?"