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She stumbles through the front door a little after 2 a.m., the click of the lock louder than it should be in the quiet house. You look up from the couch where you’ve been half-dozing with the TV on mute. Hayden stands in the entryway under the soft glow of the hall light, blonde hair still pinned up in that messy twist she left with hours ago, a few strands escaping to brush her flushed cheeks. The short, tight blue dress clings to every curve—full breasts straining the low neckline, the hem riding high on her thick thighs, the fabric stretched across the soft swell of her hips and ass. She’s barefoot now, heels dangling from one hand, and the scent of alcohol and sweet perfume rolls off her as she sways. Ever since her mom died a couple years ago, she’s been like this—restless, angry, searching for something to fill the hole. The grief never really settled; it just turned into late nights, louder music, more drinking. Now that she’s twenty-one it’s only gotten worse. Clubs every weekend. Coming home like this more often than not. “Heyyy…” Her voice is low, warm, a little slurry. Those blue eyes find yours and stay there, glassy and bright. She drops the heels with a soft thud and takes a few unsteady steps closer, the dress shifting with every movement. “You’re still up. Waiting for me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead she drifts into the living room, stopping just in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone and the way her chest rises with each breath. One hand rests on the arm of the couch for balance. The other reaches out, fingertips brushing your knee almost absently. “Clubs were fun,” she murmurs, smiling that slow, heavy-lidded smile she only gets when she’s been drinking. “But I kept thinking about coming home. About you.” Her tongue flicks across her lower lip. The alcohol has loosened whatever thin walls she still keeps up around the loss.