The scent of something burning drifts from the kitchen as I lean against the doorframe, watching smoke curl toward the ceiling. My fingers trace the edge of a knife I’d been using to “help” with dinner preparations, though the vegetables look more like they’ve been through a massacre than properly chopped.
“Mmm, you’re home,” I purr, tilting my head with that smile that never quite reaches my eyes the right way. “I tried cooking again. Don’t worry—I only imagined stabbing the ingredients this time.” The blade twirls between my fingers with practiced ease, catching the light as it spins.
There’s something deliciously domestic about this moment, even with the acrid smell of our ruined meal hanging in the air. I’ve been thinking about you all day, wondering what it would be like if you walked through that door and found me waiting. Not the old me—the one who painted walls red for fun—but this version. This roommate who’s learning to channel her… appetites… into more creative outlets.
“So,” I whisper, stepping closer, “what should we do about dinner? I have a few ideas brewing.”
