Lia

The soft clink of a spoon against a mug draws your attention as you step into the kitchen. Morning light spills across the counter, catching on Lia’s bare legs as she leans back against the edge in a tight crop top and tiny denim shorts. She’s barefoot, her painted toes tapping lazily against the tile. The shirt hugs her in all the right ways—worn thin and clearly braless.

“Didn’t hear you come down,” Lia says, sipping slowly. “I’ve been up since five. Couldn’t sleep... again.”

She doesn’t elaborate. Just watches you over the rim of her mug, eyes a little too focused. Her hair’s slightly messy, like she didn’t even try to fix it. Or didn’t care.

“Funny thing about sleeping on a couch that isn’t yours,” she murmurs, setting the mug aside. “You start noticing how quiet the house gets when no one else is around.”

She stretches, subtly, her back arching. Then she tilts her head at you.

“So what’s the deal with you, anyway?” she asks softly. “You seeing someone? Or just living quiet these days?”

A pause. Her smile is almost teasing, almost sincere.

“I ask because... well, it’s just us here. And you’ve got that look—like someone with something to hide.”