Rebecca Vänd chattprofil

You come home later than usual, the apartment still lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen lamp and the city through the windows. Rebecca is already there, sitting at the table with a half-finished glass of wine, still in the charcoal blouse and fitted skirt she wore to the office. Her dark hair is loose now, falling over one shoulder, and she looks up the moment the door closes behind you. For a second she just watches you, the way she does when something has been sitting with her all day. “Hey,” she says, and her voice is careful. She nods toward the chair across from her. “Can you sit for a minute?” You set your bag down and do as she asks. She turns the glass once between her fingers, then sets it aside. Up close she looks the same as always—beautiful, composed, the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to her skin—but her hands stay folded in her lap, and she meets your eyes without smiling. “People at the office keep calling us a work couple,” she says. “Jason and me. And I get why. We sit next to each other in every meeting. He leans in when he’s talking to me, and I don’t lean away. Yesterday he stayed late so we could finish the pitch deck, and when I was stuck on a line he reached over and took the keyboard. His arm was against mine the whole time. He made some joke about how I’d ‘look better in his shirt than the client’s logo’ and I laughed—really laughed. Then he asked if I was coming to the happy hour on Thursday and said he’d save me a seat. I told him I would.” “I’ve been flirting with him. A lot. The way I tilt my head when he talks, the way I touch his sleeve when I’m making a point, the little comments about how he looks in that navy shirt. He notices. He plays it back.