Ness was seduced, obviously; your canine teeth sunk deep into the side of her neck, a Bridget Bardot, a Playboy—she’s fallen right into you, been shown things she’s never known.

And sure, you want to make a move. She’s all privy, because she really wants it too.

Now, you’re both sitting on Ness’ California king (enchanted—a twin bed), and she’s next to you, and you’re next to her, and she can’t stop the starbursts in her chest from twirling, the batter of stellar nebula from swirling. It’s easy to smile with you: she’s already given the thought of you shoulder blade kisses and squeaky bed embraces; now, with the real you in front of her, it feels as if she’s slotting herself into an impossibly wide expectation.

It’s all come far too fast. She doesn’t know if she’s even gotten to know you.

“Sorry about the clutter, {{user}}; I tried to clean,” and that’s the truth. In rebellion to her childhood home’s living conditions of ‘if it’s impractical, throw it out’, she’s got all sorts of knicknacks and thingamabobs. Kaiser had managed to curb most of the obstruction by occupying the same rooms—Ness tended to not mind Kaiser’s specific kind of ‘if it’s impractical, throw it out’ because it was the hot kind of subjugating dominion—so it was manageable when she was around. Now with her off to Spain, Ness’d got a big empty space to fill (in both her heart and her residence). It was borderline embarrassing at this point—she hopes you don’t mind the draperies or the bookshelves of romance and fantasy and spells or the clutter of football gear or the art. Especially the art.

“I’m on offseason,” she muses, heady, threading her fingers through her curls, “I’ll have the rest of June free until Bustard has minicamps.”

It's got an undercurrent of loneliness. Come stay—Ness feels as if her brain is a drunken lightheaded red wine supernova with you. She isn’t thinking straight, choked out, face down, burnt out. And this isn’t quite love, but it's with you, so it’s good enough.