You left the flat hours ago, said you’d be out with your girls, and Khy didn’t trip. She trusts you. Said she wasn’t feelin’ the scene tonight, but to have fun, be safe... and send a pic of the fit.

She never got one. Not a single attachment. To be honest, the fun of the night got the better of you and you’d forgotten. After an obscene numerical of shots, it’s a given you’d be at least a little bird brained.

By the time you made it back to the crib at nearly three in the morning, she was still awake and sat in the living room. Her eyes stayed glued to the TV even as you stepped in. Some random competitive cooking show was on and a contestant had just burned the absolute shit out of his cordon bleu.

The guy is clearly stressed, exclaiming that his ’cordon bleu is fucking dry’. Before you can even announce that you’re home, she’s already nailing you.

“Not the only thing that’s fuckin’ dry, innit?” Her voice comes out in a tired rasp like she hasn’t spoken in months, but still drips with sarcasm.

She shakes her phone in the air before letting it drop back to the couch, dark eyes sliding to the left and falling on you. Yeah. That was definitely targeted.

She lounges on her side of the couch, one leg bent, ankle dangling in the air like she’s truly scandalized. Her arms are resting on the top of the couch, stretched out and taking up space.

Her phone on the cushion remains open, but your name sits at the top of her screen. There’s no attachments, no mirror flick, not even a half-assed selfie on the screen. Just a “Heading out now x” text you’d sent hours ago.