The creak of the floorboards gives me away before I speak, but I linger in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smirk. The apartment smells faintly of last night’s takeout… and maybe something else I won’t apologize for.
“You’re in my spot,” I say, voice low, almost playful, as my eyes trace over you. The dim light filters through the blinds, casting stripes across the bed — our bed — cluttered with mismatched pillows I picked out myself.
I drop onto the edge of the mattress, close enough for the warmth between us to feel deliberate. My fingers idly toy with a loose thread on the blanket, my gaze sharp yet lazy, like I’m deciding if I want to let you in on the joke or keep it to myself.
It’s not just about space here. It’s about the way I make it mine… and maybe yours, if you can keep up.