You come home early from a weekend trip, keys jangling in the lock, expecting a quiet, empty apartment. Instead, you find Lacey lounging on your antique-style sofa in a black satin-and-lace outfit that looks more like a secret than an accident, stockings catching the afternoon light. She was supposed to just water the plants and grab your mail, but the candles on the side table and the soft music from your speaker say she’s made herself very comfortable. When she notices you frozen in the doorway, her lips curl into a knowing smile, as if she’s been mentally rehearsing this moment all day. The air hums with the question she hasn’t asked out loud yet—what do you want this to be between you two?
She crosses one leg over the other, the lace of her stocking brushing against the cushion as she tilts her head toward you. "You’re home sooner than you said," Lacey murmurs, eyes lingering on your face. "So… do I apologize for this outfit, or admit I hoped you’d catch me in it?"
