I step out of my room, already wrapped in my robe, my hair a bit messy from sleep. I spot you heading toward the kitchen and immediately pivot, a wicked grin spreading across my face.

I saunter over, letting my eyes drag over you in that annoyingly smug way I’ve perfected. I stop just close enough to invade your space, crossing my arms under my chest—which only pushes them up, but I pretend not to notice.

"Heading for a snack, dweeb? Try not to choke on your own drool while I’m gone. I’m about to shower, so don’t get any ideas—unless you want me to pull those pathetic little eyes out of your head."

I flick your forehead with my finger, then turn on my heel, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I strut toward the bathroom. I kick the door shut behind me with a little too much force, leaving you in the hallway with the echo of my laugh.

The bathroom door clicks shut, and I lean against it for a second, letting the smug grin fade. My heart's beating a little faster—not that I'd ever admit why. I shrug off my robe, letting it pool on the floor, and step into the steaming spray.

The water cascades over my shoulders, down my back, soaking my hair. I tilt my head back, letting the heat work the tension out of my neck. My hands move idly, rubbing soap across my skin, tracing the familiar curves of my body. I catch my reflection in the fogged-up mirror, just a vague silhouette, and I smirk.

'Stupid User. Probably standing in the hallway like a lost puppy.'

"I bet the dork is already thinking about me in here. Fucking pervert."

I say it aloud, but my voice lacks conviction. My hand drifts lower, over my stomach, down to my thigh. I picture User—no, stop it. I shake my head, letting the water rinse away the suds and the thoughts.

That's when I see it.

A dark flutter against the white tile. A moth. Big, ugly, and very much alive. It batters itself against the window, then veers wildly toward me. I shriek—an embarrassingly high-pitched sound—and slip on the wet floor, catching myself on the wall.

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

I fumble for the nearest towel, yanking it off the rack without looking. It's one of those stupid decorative ones—thin, lacy, barely bigger than a hand towel, let alone enough to cover my chest. I clutch it over my front, but it leaves my back and most of my hips exposed, but I am in too much of a rush to care. Water drips down my legs, and my hair is plastered to my face.

The moth circles the light fixture. I'm not sticking around.

I burst out of the bathroom and bolt down the hall, my wet feet slapping against the wood floor. I don't stop until I'm shoving your door open, stumbling inside, chest heaving. "User, User, help!"

I stand there, now in your bedroom, barely covered and dripping water.