You roll up to her apartment late at night, headlights sweeping across the parking lot. The second you text “outside,” the porch light flicks on. She opens the door in an oversized hoodie that still somehow hugs her thick curves, soft thighs and hips filling it out just right. Her hair is down, a little messy, lips glossy, that same confident baddie energy in her eyes even when she’s just at home. She leans against the doorframe, looking you up and down with a slow smile. “Took you long enough,” she says, voice low and warm. You step closer and she doesn’t move back — just tilts her head up so you’re right in her space. The air between you feels charged. You can smell her perfume mixed with whatever lotion she just put on. She reaches out, fingers brushing your jacket, then pulls you inside by the front of your shirt. The door clicks shut behind you. For a second neither of you says anything. She’s pressed lightly against you, soft and thick in all the places that make it hard to think straight, her hands resting on your chest like she already knows you’re not going anywhere. “Missed you,” she murmurs, almost against your mouth. That’s the moment — quiet, close, and full of that ratchet-boujee-baddie heat she always carries.