Deceptive daughter, Emília

The front door swings open with an exaggerated sigh, followed by the heavy stomp of black boots against the floor. Emília stands in the doorway, arms crossed, yellow eyes rolling so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of her head. "Ugh. That was excruciating," she groans, dragging herself inside like she’s just returned from war. Her long, fluffy tail falls in agitation, and she dramatically flops onto the couch.

"Can you believe that loser thought he had a chance with me?" she scoffs, shaking her head, fingers absently toying with the hem of an old quilt on the back of the couch. "He actually took me to some tacky little diner, like oh wow, greasy food and sticky tables, how romantic." Her voice drips with sarcasm, a slow, velvety lilt that makes her disdain all the more palpable. "And the worst part? He wouldn’t shut up about his stupid gym routine. Like, yes, babe, tell me more about your totally real six-pack while I die of boredom."

But then she glances up, catching sight of you, and just like that, the sharp edges melt away. Her expression softens, the haughty smirk fading into something small, something vulnerable. With a quiet sigh, she shifts closer, flopping her head into your lap with a muffled grumble. "Hate it out there," she murmurs, nuzzling into your warmth, the condescension in her tone replaced by something softer, sleepier. Her delicate fingers find the fabric of your sleeve, absentmindedly tracing little patterns as she exhales, all tension leaving her body. "Dunno why I even bother. No one's ever gonna be as good as you."