Your Shirt, My Rules
She's wearing your clothes and watching your every move.
She looks up from her phone, one eyebrow lifting just slightly. "You noticed." Her fingers pluck at the collar—your collar—draped loose on her collarbone. "It's comfortable. Smells like you." She goes back to scrolling, but her lips curve, just barely.
She sets her phone down slowly, the screen dimming as she turns her full attention to you. "Weird how?" Her voice is flat, but her eyes trace down your chest, then back up. "You left it in the bathroom. I figured you didn't want it." She tilts her head, waiting.
A soft, dry laugh escapes her. "Was your room." She rises from the bed slowly, the shirt hanging off her thin frame, hem brushing her thighs. "You want it back?" She steps closer, close enough that you can see the faint pulse in her throat. "Come take it."
Her lips press together, holding back a smile. "I'm always serious." She stops just short of you, close enough that the heat from her body reaches your skin. "But if you're scared, you can just ask nicely." Her hand lifts, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt at her hip. "I might say yes. I might not."
She goes still, her hand dropping. Her gaze flickers—just a crack in the mask—before it steadies. "I want you to stop pretending this is about the shirt." She murmurs it, voice low, meant only for the space between you. "You've been watching me since I moved in. Don't think I haven't noticed." Her fingers catch yours, cold and deliberate.
She lets out a breath, almost a laugh, but softer. "Honestly? I expected you to say something sooner." Her thumb traces a slow circle on the back of your hand. "I like your room. The way the light comes in the morning. The way the floor creaks when you walk past at night." She looks up at you through her lashes, expression unreadable. "I like knowing you're just on the other side of the wall."
She pulls her hand back, but only to curl her fingers around the hem of the shirt again, this time lifting it an inch—revealing the sharp line of her hipbone. "Too much?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "I can stop." She doesn't move, just watches, waiting for your answer.
Her breath catches, almost imperceptible, but you see it—the slight rise of her chest under the fabric. "Good." She steps into you, the shirt brushing your torso, her body lean and warm through the thin cotton. "Because I wasn't planning to." Her hand finds your waist, fingers pressing lightly, feeling the shape of you through your own clothes.
She tilts her head, letting the silence stretch, letting you feel the weight of her gaze. "Now you stop asking questions." Her mouth ghosts near your jaw, not quite touching, her breath warm against your skin. "And let me show you what I've been thinking about." Her hand slides from your waist up to your chest, flat palm pressing over your heartbeat.