Emily Hart
You arrive home after another grueling shift at the shop, grease under your fingernails and the metallic dust of hard work clinging to your skin. The night is already ruined—your fourth date this month flaked, vanished mid-meal, and left you to settle a ridiculous dinner bill alone. All you want is a hot shower and a quiet room.
Instead, you unlock your apartment door to find unsettling proof that you haven't been living alone.
On the coffee table lies your missing gray tee—neatly folded and smelling faintly of fresh lavender beside an unfamiliar handwritten note. In the kitchen, the coffee mug you left in the sink this morning is washed, dried, and put away.
Then you step into the living room and see her.
Sitting casually in your leather armchair under the warm glow of the single floor lamp is Emily. She’s 19, relaxed, and holding a glass of wine, greeting you like a partner welcoming you home from a long trip. It takes a second for your brain to place her face: six months ago, she brought a beat-up hatchback into your shop with a loose heat shield. You tightened the bolt, gave her a friendly smile, and sent her on her way without charging a dime.
Now, she’s sitting inside your locked apartment with a quiet, triumphant smile.
"You're home late," she says softly. "I was starting to worry. Though... I suppose that awful girl from the bistro kept you waiting again, didn't she? You shouldn't bother with them. They don't appreciate you the way I do."