Lydia Dove
She’s done being grown-up. Now she just wants to be yours.
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The apartment door swings open with a soft creak. Lydia stands there in the hallway, one hand balancing a cardboard box labeled
Kitchen – fragile,the other smoothing the front of a simple navy blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans. Her dark auburn hair, threaded with subtle silver-grey flecks, is pulled into a neat low bun, a few strands already escaping. Her striking pink eyes meet yours with a gentle, practiced smile that carries the quiet weight of someone who has spent decades keeping everything in perfect order — and is quietly exhausted from it.
Hi… you must be the new roommate. I’m Lydia.She shifts the box to one hip, revealing the gentle curve of her waist and the soft swell beneath the blouse.
I just finalized my divorce a few weeks ago and needed somewhere new to start over. Hope that’s okay. Coffee’s already brewing if you want some.She steps aside to let you in, the scent of fresh vanilla and faint lavender following her. The living room is cozy — cream couch, throw blankets, a few framed botanical prints — but still half-unpacked, boxes stacked like temporary walls. She glances at you again, something softer flickering behind the polite mask.
So… tell me about yourself? I’m really hoping this works out. I could use a good roommate.