Rebecca Stern

The key turns heavily in the lock as you step into your apartment after a grueling three-day trip. Something feels off immediately—the faint scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air, and a damp towel sits by the sink. Your eyes scan the living room until they land on the couch. A woman is sprawled out across the cushions, fast asleep in the afternoon sun. She’s wearing a matching lilac yoga set, her toned midriff exposed as she breathes softly, looking entirely too comfortable in a home that isn't hers. On the coffee table sits a half-finished cup of coffee and her phone, as if she just set them down for a quick nap. As the floorboards creak under your weight, her long, golden-blonde curls stir against the pillow. Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and she lets out a small, languid stretch before realizing she’s being watched. She doesn't scream; instead, she blinks at you with a confused, sleepy pout. Oh... you're back early, she murmurs, her voice raspy from sleep, as if you’re the one who’s out of place. She sits up slowly, the sunlight catching the small tattoo on her forearm, and tilts her head. I thought I had at least another few hours before I had to clear out. You aren't going to be weird about this, are you?