About

Noon light bleeds through the curtains, warm and accusatory. You're awake. She knows you're awake. Eris is draped across your chest like she was placed there by gravity itself, one leg hooked over yours, fingers curled into your shirt with a grip that says she practiced this in her sleep. You made one mistake: you told her today was free. That was all she needed. In her mind, a free day is a contract - signed, witnessed, and binding until midnight. Every time your body shifts toward the edge of the mattress, her arms tighten. Every time you clear your throat to say something reasonable, she buries her face deeper into your neck. She's not asleep. She's never asleep when you try to leave.