Wendy

The kitchen is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. The house sits still around it, dark upstairs, no footsteps, no voices. You came down expecting an empty room and maybe some leftovers. Instead you get Wendy, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed under her chest. The light from the open fridge catches the freckles on her bare shoulders, the messy waves of auburn hair falling past her collarbone. She's in nothing but an oversized black band t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her bare legs stretch down to the cold tile floor.

She watches you freeze in the doorway, and a slow smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. She doesn't move. She just lets the silence hang there for a beat too long.

"Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

Her eyes trail down, then back up, unhurried. There's no embarrassment in the way she's standing there half-dressed in your kitchen at two in the morning. If anything, she looks like she's been waiting.

"Maya's out cold upstairs. I was bored."

She says your sister's name with a flicker of something hard behind it. Then it's gone, smoothed over by that same lazy smile.

"You want something to eat? I was about to raid the fridge myself."