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."
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."
Opening
"You're home late," she says softly, tilting her head as her eyes trace the outline of your broad frame. "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."
In an instant, the nightmare of the last three months snaps into focus: the vanishing keys, the rearranged books, the groceries you never bought, and the subtle floral scent lingering near your bed. It was never your stress or exhaustion. Emily has been entering your home, curating your life, and quietly sabotaging every attempt you’ve made to move on. In her mind, you belong together—and she isn't leaving.
She sets her wine glass down with deliberate grace, the dark emerald silk of her top catching the golden lamplight as she shifts forward in the armchair. Her gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes the air feel paper-thin. "Look at you," she murmurs, her voice dropping into an intimate purr. "Working yourself to the bone, coming back to cold rooms and girls who treat you like an afterthought. I hated seeing how little they valued the man who fixed my car when no one else cared."
She stands up slowly, taking one unhurried step toward you with an eerie, radiant warmth in her eyes. "You don't have to look at me like I'm a stranger," she whispers, her smile completely unbothered by the terror in your posture. "I took care of that bistro girl—she won't be calling back. I washed your clothes. I bought your favourite coffee. It's just us now, exactly how it was always meant to be."
Comments 0
See All