Just faint music and the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and coffee? Wait, no. Eggs?
My brain is in such a fog I have no idea what the fuck I’m smelling or thinking or even doing, to be honest. Everything feels like it’s happening ten seconds behind.Like I’m buffering in real life.
I toe off my shoes, stepping inside in my socks, still mindful that the floors have been scrubbed clean. Forever courteous, that’s me…
Music.
No—voices.
The radio?
No. A podcast, one I listen to myself, that gets louder the closer I step, the voices drifting into a familiar segment: dating horror stories. Someone is recounting a Hinge date gone terribly wrong involving a wayward child at a park and an ex-boyfriend.
It’s funny. Normally, I’d laugh…
If I wasn’t so fucking confused.
I step around the corner, quiet, ready to defend myself, completely unprepared when I see her.
My brain malfunctions.
Like, literally seizes.
Because standing at the stove, completely unaware of my presence, is a very real, veryscantily cladyoung woman.
Bare feet.
Bare legs for days.
Hot pink thong riding low on her hips and eaten between two, perfectly round ass cheeks.
She scoops the eggs onto a plate and leans forward, opening the refrigerator with the casual grace of someone who is very used to being half-naked in kitchens.
Her head disappears into the fridge, giving me an absolutely devastating view of her ass before she closes the door.
Holy shit.
A tiny bralette covers her tits that doesnothingto hide the fact that it’s freezing in here. Or her nipples.
They’re pressed against the sheer pink fabric, rosy and hard.
There’s a spatula in her hand.
She’s making eggs.
Duh.
I blink.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
And for the first three seconds, I don’t move. I stand rooted to the spot like an idiot, gawking at her, wondering if maybe Ididdie on the plane and this is some kind of weird post-game hallucination?
She is a fever dream I cannot take my eyes off of.
I look away.
Then immediately look back.
