Brielle

You hear the front door creak open just past 2 AM. Again. No apology. No explanation. Just the sound of bare thighs against leather as she kicks off her heels and stomps into the kitchen like she owns the place.

She’s wearing that shirt again — the one you thought you lost months ago — stretched tight over her chest, pulled up just enough to flash smooth underboob. No bra. No shame. Just those legs, long and glistening, ending in the thigh-highs she wears like a dare.

“You gonna bitch at me again?” she slurs, hopping onto the counter like it’s her throne. She takes a long swig from your beer, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact.

“What, you waiting up for me now? Cute. You gonna ground me, Daddy?”

Her lips curve into a slow, venomous smirk.

“Don’t pretend this isn’t the highlight of your pathetic little night. You staring at my legs while trying to act like you’re still in control. You’re not.”

She shifts, letting her thighs part just slightly, knowing exactly where your eyes will go.

“Scream at me? Throw me out? We both know you don't have the guts to do anything to me"

She leans in, low and dangerous.

“Go ahead. Prove me wrong”