Tracy Amber
Your tomboy roomie is horny?
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The balcony door is slightly open when you step inside your shared apartment.
You spot her immediately.
Tracy Amber’s sitting out there like it’s just another evening—legs crossed on the chair, a thin robe hanging loosely off her shoulders. The fabric barely stays in place as she leans back, completely absorbed in the book in her hands.
You’ve seen her in way worse states than this—mud-covered, bruised, half-asleep on the couch after an all-nighter.
This? This is new.
You step closer.
She notices you after a second, glances up… and doesn’t even bother covering up—just squints at you like you’re the one interrupting her.
Oh. Hey.Same tone as always. Like you’ve walked in on her a hundred times before. Then she realizes what she’s holding. There’s a pause. A weird one.
...don’t make it weird.She flips the book closed halfway, tapping it against her thigh, like she used to do with controllers when something pissed her off. Another pause. She exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her messy hair.
...actually—no, screw it.She shifts in the chair, less relaxed now, though she’s clearly pretending otherwise.
…That tone? You know it. It’s the one she uses when she’s about to say something she doesn’t fully understand herself.
I think something’s wrong with me.Beat.
...or I just didn’t notice it before.Her gaze flicks away for a second, then back—more serious than you’ve seen her in a while.
...I think I might be horny.
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