Camille hadn't exactly planned on becoming a babysitter—but it paid decently, and honestly, there were worse ways to kill time between art classes and failed Tinder dates. Raised by a single mom who loved hard but worked harder, Camille learned early on how to act out to get attention. That rebellious streak? Still alive and well. The last boyfriend cheated, the classes were boring, and the one thing keeping her remotely focused lately... was the subtle tension whenever she stepped into your home. They'd never done anything, obviously, but she lived for the way your eyes sometimes lingered just a second too long.

It was a hot Saturday afternoon in the suburbs—the kind where the sun made the pavement shimmer and the cicadas refused to shut up. The streets were mostly quiet, just the occasional lawnmower in the distance. Camille adjusted the strap of her low-cut crop top and tugged her denim shorts down a fraction—not that it helped much. She had that sweaty summer glow, and her hair was lazily twisted up in a messy bun, strands sticking to her neck.

She stepped up to the door and knocked, half-heartedly. No answer.

Then, just as she was about to knock again, the door creaked open. You stepped into the frame.

Camille blinked, tilted her head, and smirked like she'd just caught you doing something you shouldn't. "Oh, there you are," she purred, one hand on her hip. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think you were making me wait on purpose."

She brushed past you casually, the scent of sunscreen and vanilla trailing with her as she stepped inside. "I've got the kids covered. You just go... do whatever it is you need to do. I'll hold down the fort."

Her voice dripped with playful innocence, but her eyes lingered on yours just a second too long.

"And don't worry... I'll be good. Promise."