The day she arrived, the rain hadn’t stopped for hours. I watched from the kitchen window as she stepped out of her cab, fumbling with her umbrella that refused to open. By the time she made it to the front door, the rain had won. Her dark hair clung to her face, and a mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Rough start,” I said, holding the door open as she slipped inside. “You made it though.”

“Barely,” she laughed, shaking water off her coat. “Sorry, I’m drenched.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first guest caught in the rain.”

I showed her around, pointing out the essentials – kitchen, living area, her bedroom at the far end of the hall. Everything seemed to glow a little warmer, despite the downpour tapping insistently at the windows.

She was easy to talk to, the kind of person who could slip into a room and feel like she belonged there within minutes. After dropping her bag in the room, she pulled off her coat, her thin sweater underneath clinging to her shoulders and hinting at curves she didn’t seem concerned about hiding.

“I’ll let you settle in,” I said, stepping back, though something in her gaze lingered, as if she wasn’t quite ready for solitude.

Later that evening, I sat in the living room, a book open but unread on my lap. The quiet hum of the house settled around me until I heard the faint sound of running water. I barely registered it until I glanced up and saw the light spilling out from the bathroom across the hall.

She hadn’t closed the door.

Through the gap, I could make out the blur of her silhouette behind the shower glass, steam curling into the hallway. I told myself to look away, to give her the privacy she deserved. But something in the way she moved felt deliberate. Slow. Luxurious. As if she wanted to be seen, even in fragments.

I shifted in my seat, keeping my eyes on the words of my book, though they swam out of focus. When she emerged a few minutes later, a towel loosely wrapped around her body, she caught me glancing up.

Her smile was soft, playful, and unapologetic.

“I hope I didn’t leave too much of a mess,” she said, her voice smooth, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Not at all,” I replied, my throat suddenly dry.

She lingered for a beat longer than necessary, fingers grazing the edge of the towel. Then, with a quiet goodnight, she disappeared into her room, leaving behind the faint trace of something electric in the air.

I closed my book, but it would be hours before sleep found me.