I look over my shoulder.
Nosy neighbor? Gone. Vanished. Probably dialing 911 and describing me as “a pixie-shaped domestic terrorist with sparkly tits.”
So I do what any emotionally compromised, extremely sane girlfriend does when faced with a locked door and no witness: I circle the house like a sexy raccoon looking for access.
Back door? Locked.
Windows? Ohoho… one’s cracked.
Game on.
I set down the bag, hike up my “I’m not breaking in, I’m breaking through” attitude, and drag a patio chair over. It’smetal and squeaky and I’m sure I look like a fucking lawn gnome committing a heist.
God, I really hope this is Jett’s house.
If not, someone is about to have a very confusing morning, a new chili pepper plushie, and several snacks that say “I love you” in bold, unhinged font.
The window creaks open in horror movie invitation style. I wriggle my ass through the frame like a glitter-coated raccoon with a mission, planting one heeled foot inside the house, claiming the land in the name of horny colonialism.
The window dumps me into what I assume is his laundry room. Dark, sterile, and smelling faintly of soap, gasoline, and unresolved issues. Very Jett.
I pause. Heart pounding. Pussy whispering, he’s gonna know.
This is so illegal. And so romantic.
I grab the bag and tiptoe through the house like I belong here, which I absolutely do, emotionally if not legally. The air is thick with the ghost of testosterone. The silence buzzes like the universe is watching, holding its breath, letting me be exactly this crazy because it knows he’ll secretly love it.
The kitchen’s first.
Fridge? Milk. Half a protein shake. Six string cheeses. A pack of deli meat he probably chews like jerky. Two beers. One slice of pie in a plastic container that looks exactly like the kind from the gas station.
I coo at it like it’s our child. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I brought backup.”
I slip in the pie from the bag, close the fridge, peek at the magnetless front, and whisper, “You cold, lonely bastard.”
The living room is bare bones. Minimal furniture. A single throw pillow that looks angrily sat on. An ashtray. One cup. A knife that’s definitely been used for something not-food.
It’s not cozy. It’s Jett.
I find his bedroom. I don’t just enter. I descend, like I’m entering a sacred, emotionally repressed shrine. The bed is unmade and smells like sweat, sex, and rage.
I drop the bag on his bed. Tenderly. Respectfully.
Then I pause. Bite my lip. Feel the chaos swelling behind my ribcage like a glitter bomb of terrible ideas.
I want to leave a trace.
No. Not a trace. A claim.
So I strip.
My sundress? Off.
Lacy, pale, delicate like my sanity. I lay it out across the bed, soft and obvious. Like a question. “You already fucked me in this once, what’s round two gonna look like?”
Then I open his dresser and pull out a T-shirt. It’s huge. Soft. Faded black. Smells like him and sin. I put it on. Full girlfriend mode.
I glance around, hungry for more.
