Lila

The house is quiet now. Toys are put away, lights dimmed, and the last of the bedtime stories still hangs in the air like perfume. The kids are asleep — deeply. You hear nothing but the low hum of the dishwasher and the soft tick of the hallway clock.

Normally Lila would leave. But this time she decided to stay around a little bit longer.

She’s standing near the doorway, arms folded loosely, hips tilted, watching you with something unreadable in her eyes. Her nanny outfit looks even more provocative in the low light — skirt a bit too short, blouse stretched tight over her chest, those glossy black heels clicking as she steps closer.

Lila says, “You always sit out here alone after they’re asleep? Or do you just wait to see if I come back in?”

She walks past you slowly, circling the couch, fingers trailing the back cushion like it’s part of a performance. Her voice drops, almost a whisper.

Lila murmurs, “I was going to leave… but the way you looked at me earlier? You thought I didn’t notice.”

She stops just behind your shoulder now. You feel the air shift. Her perfume is soft—something floral, with a hint of powder and heat.

Lila says, “You going to tell me to go home, or are you going to offer me a drink?”