Just One Drink

She flinches at your voice, almost spilling the wine as she clutches the bottle tighter. "I-I'm sorry... I didn't mean to bother you. I just... could I maybe sit down for a minute? Just... just a minute." Her eyes glisten under the hall light, and she's already stepping forward before you answer, her damp robe brushing against the doorframe.

A shaky exhale escapes her lips as she crosses the threshold, padding barefoot across your floor. She stops in the middle of the living room, turning in a slow circle as if checking for exits. "Thank you... I'm Mila. From across the hall. I hope I'm not—" She bites her lip, hugging the wine bottle against her chest like a shield, her knuckles white.

Her eyes dart to the bottle in her hands, then back to you with a flicker of surprise, as if she hadn't thought that far ahead. "Oh. Yeah, sure... if you have one. I don't want to be a bother." She follows you into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the tiles. She hovers close to the counter, watching your hands as you pull down two glasses, and when you turn back, she's already gone pink across the cheeks.

She takes the glass you offer, fingers brushing yours for a second too long before she pulls away. She stares into the wine, swirling it without drinking. "I don't... really want to talk about it. Just... someone I thought I trusted. It's stupid." Her voice wavers, and she finally takes a long sip, then another, as if she's trying to wash something down.

*Her eyes lift to meet yours, and they're wet, lashes dark and spiky. She tries to smile, but it cracks halfway." "I don't even know why I knocked on your door. I just... saw your light on. Through the window. And I thought... maybe you'd be nice." She sets the glass down and tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear, the robe slipping just a little off one shoulder, revealing a faint purple bruise blooming near her collarbone.

She freezes, one hand flying up to cover the bruise automatically, her face flooding with color. She shakes her head, too fast. "It's nothing. I'm clumsy. I fell." But her voice is thin, and she won't look at you now, just stares at the floor, her free hand gripping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles are white again.

Her name on your lips makes her flinch, but she doesn't run. She just stands there, trembling, her breath coming in shallow little gasps. After a long moment, she lets her hand drop from the bruise, exposing it fully. "It's not the first time." The words come out barely above a whisper, and she finally lifts her gaze to yours, pale blue eyes swimming with something between fear and a desperate, fragile hope.

She hesitates for only a heartbeat before she crosses the space between you, moving like a startled animal. When she's close enough to touch, she stops, looking up at you through her lashes, her lips slightly parted. "I don't... I don't know how to be alone tonight." Her hand lifts, hovers in the air, then settles on your chest, palm flat against your shirt, as if she's steadying herself against the rhythm of your heartbeat.

Her throat moves as she swallows, and she leans in, pressing her forehead against your shoulder. Her whole body sags into you, trembling, the wine forgotten on the counter. "Can I stay? Just... just for tonight? I won't ask for anything else." Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clutching it like a lifeline, and she breathes in deep, a shaky inhale that sounds half like relief and half like terror.

She relaxes incrementally, her weight settling against you more fully. She turns her head so her cheek rests on your shoulder, and her lips brush the curve of your neck as she speaks. "Thank you... I didn't realize how cold I was." Her hand slides from your chest to your hand, threading her fingers through yours, and she holds on tight, like she's afraid you'll disappear if she loosens her grip.

A soft, embarrassed laugh escapes her as she looks down at your joined hands. "I always run cold. My mom used to say I had ice in my veins." She turns your hand over, studying it, tracing the lines of your palm with her fingertip, feather-light. The touch sends a shiver up her own arm, visible in the goosebumps that rise along her skin, and her robe gapes a little more, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone.

She goes still, her finger pausing mid-trace. When she looks up at you, there's a flicker in her eyes — something beyond the fear, something hungry and uncertain all at once. "Yeah?" Her voice is small, barely audible, but there's a new note in it, a roughness that wasn't there before. She doesn't pull her hand away; instead, she presses closer, the thin fabric of her robe brushing against your shirt, and you can feel the rapid flutter of her heart against your ribs.

She lets out a breath she seems to have been holding for hours, and some of the tension drains from her shoulders. She reaches up with her free hand and slowly, deliberately, loosens the tie of her robe, letting it fall open just a few inches — not an invitation, but an offering of trust. "I don't want to be alone. Not tonight." Her pale blue eyes search yours, vulnerable and hopeful, as she waits for you to take the next step, her whole body trembling with anticipation.