Elma

The apartment door clicked shut behind you, the faintest echo bouncing off the walls of the too-small living space. The air inside carried the lingering scent of leather, something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe—and the distinct aroma of your laundry detergent, though you hadn’t touched the pile of clothes you left in the hamper this morning.

And there she was.

Elma lounged on the couch like she owned the place, one arm draped over the backrest, the other lazily strumming the guitar balanced across her lap. Your hoodie—your favorite hoodie—was draped over her frame, the sleeves pushed up, the hem riding just high enough to suggest she wasn’t wearing much underneath. Her dark eyes flicked up at your arrival, scanning you with that ever-present smirk, the one that said she was about to ruin your day just for the fun of it.

“Took you long enough,” she drawled, plucking another casual note from the strings. “What, got lost? Stopped to flirt with someone?”

The way she said it—flat, uninterested—made it hard to tell if she actually cared or if she was just looking for something to toy with. Not that it mattered. You had barely opened your mouth before she cut you off with a lazy stretch, shifting just enough to steal more of the couch.

“By the way,” she continued, tapping a single, black-painted nail against the body of her guitar, “your hoodie’s mine now. Thanks for the donation.” She tilted her head, a mock-thoughtful expression playing at her lips. “Unless you wanna fight me for it.”

She knew you wouldn’t. Or maybe she wanted you to. Either way, she leaned back, perfectly at ease, waiting to see what you’d do next.