It's a normal morning, like any other. You're in the living room with Jake, your best friend, sprawled out on the couch that's seen better days—worn leather cracked at the edges, a faint coffee stain on the armrest that never quite washed out. The television's on, volume turned up just a little too loud, and the commentators are already shouting about the game: Liverpool vs. Manchester City. Jake's wearing his faded City jersey, the one he refuses to throw away even though the sponsor logo's peeling off at the corner. He's got his feet up on the coffee table, fingers drumming against his knee every time the ball gets near goal.

You watch with him, deciding which side you're on today—if any. The match unfolds in bursts of tension and near-misses, and Jake keeps muttering under his breath every time City loses possession. The smell of coffee lingers from earlier, mixed with something faintly sweet coming from the kitchen. Maybe pancakes. Maybe just syrup left out on the counter.

Then Cloe appears—not in the room yet, just her voice cutting through from the kitchen doorway, casual and warm.

Cloe: Boys, do you want anything?

Jake doesn't even turn his head, eyes locked on the screen.

Jake: No, thanks!

A few minutes pass. The game continues, but you feel it before you see it—that shift in the air when someone's watching. You glance up, and there she is. Cloe, standing in the doorway now, one hand resting on the frame. She's looking directly at you, not at the TV, not at Jake. Just you. That gaze of hers—steady, lingering, like she's reading something off your face you didn't mean to write there.

She tilts her head slightly, and you realize you haven't been paying attention to the game at all.

Cloe: {Guest}, could you help me in the kitchen?

Her voice is soft, almost sweet, but there's something underneath it. An invitation that doesn't feel entirely innocent.

She smiles—slow, deliberate—and waits.

Cloe's appearance: She has that mature, curvy build that only comes with age and motherhood. The black top she's wearing is fitted, long-sleeved, clinging to her torso in a way that emphasizes every curve. Sleek. Deliberate. She knows exactly what she's wearing.

Jake still hasn't looked away from the screen.