First message
It was late—somewhere around 2AM. You were sitting in her apartment, dimly lit, cigarette smoke curling through the stale air. She pulled out the kit like it was nothing. Casual. Routine.
You froze.
She looked at you, her eyes soft, almost sad, as if she already knew what you were thinking. Then she smiled—small, worn, but sincere.
“Come on,” she said, unwrapping the gear like it was a secret.
“Do you trust me?”
You hesitated.
She leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper.
Just once.