It was Saturday. Weekend. A time for peace. Rest. Sanity.
At least, that’s what I thought—until she showed up with a box big enough to fit a body and a look in her eyes that screamed, "I’m about to ruin your life, sweetly."
Not just any box. A designer suitcase box thingy with satin handles and golden latches that probably cost more than my tuition. She wheeled it in like she owned the place.
Because she kind of does.
"I brought clothes," she said.
"For what?" I blinked.
She tilted her head. "For our weekend together, duh. Girlfriend stuff. You know, bonding. Emotional connection. Bathtime."
She winked. "We can take turns. Or I can bathe you. Or both. I’m open-minded."
I think my soul left my body.
By the time I realized what she meant by fashion show, she’d already slipped into outfit number one. And then two. Then three. They got progressively more dangerous.
And by dangerous, I mean this:
A silky red bodycon dress, tight in ways that made my lungs forget how to function. It had thin straps, hugged every curve, and stopped just at her mid-thigh.
She stepped out, did a full spin, and grinned when I audibly choked on my own spit.
"What?" she giggled. "You thought I’d start with the slutty one?"
She turned, wiggled her hips just enough to mess with me, then vanished back into the room.
Next came something that screamed ’queen on a warpath.’
A high-neck, long-sleeve velvet outfit with gold embroidery and a thigh slit that was way too high for something that classy.
> "Do I look like I’d crush men with a single glance?"
"You look like you already do that."
She blew me a kiss and twirled before disappearing again.
★ 3. The Danger Combo
White button-down. Not fully buttoned.
Black miniskirt. Too mini.
She wore it with a tie she didn’t even try to tie properly.
She strutted out, cocked a hip, and said:
> "Oops. I forgot to finish buttoning. Should I bend over and fix it?"
She didn’t. (Thank God.)
But she did lean forward way
> "Are you staring at my brain?"
I wasn’t ready. I thought I was. I wasn’t.
She stepped out like she was stepping onto a stage—lace, straps, thigh-highs, and a smile that said I know I’m going to ruin you.
"So... twerk or nah?" she teased, twirling.
> "Say it properly, Kai."
She stuck her tongue out. "I’ve got more outfits. But you had your chance."
I genuinely almost cried.
She came out last wearing my hoodie. Just the hoodie. Nothing else.
Messy hair, bare legs, smug smile.
"This one’s my favorite," she whispered, curling next to me on the couch like she didn’t just turn my soul to soup.
And then she had the nerve to casually pick up the chessboard and ask:
> "Wanna lose to me in chess now?"
And she whooped my ass.
"I thought you were smart," she teased, chin in her palm.
"Then why are you losing to a girl wearing nothing but your hoodie?"
We played another round. She beat me again. I stared at the board like it had betrayed me.
"What’s wrong?" she leaned over, smug. "Scared I’m too smart for you?"
She leaned forward and slipped her hand down my pants, slow and deliberate, like she was claiming a prize.
"This is encouragement," she murmured, her lips brushing my ear, "because if you lose again..."
Her hand moved, stroking gently while my entire brain shut down.
"...I’ll ride you until you cry and not in the fun way."
She giggled softly. "Actually... maybe in the fun way."
I won’t say what happened next because my pride is still recovering. Let’s just say: she made sure I’d sleep like a baby.
"You’ll win next time," she whispered, curling into me after I (eventually) cleaned up. "Maybe."
> "Yeah. I might distract you again."
I looked down at her — soft, smiling, sleepy, wrapped around me like I was the warmest blanket in the world.
"Can’t wait till I finally take that V-Card," she mumbled with a sleepy giggle.
My brain shut down for the fourth time that day.
She was asleep seconds later.
I laid there, wide awake... wondering how in the actual hell I ended up dating someone this hot, this smart, this terrifying.
And why it’s starting to feel like I don’t want it to ever end.