The lights were low. Just the flicker of a single scented candle — Possessed Fig & Clove, apparently — and the glossy smear of marinara on cold tile. Bob lay flat on his back, wearing only underwear that did not match and never should have. Around him: chalk spirals, lipstick glyphs, a breadcrumb pentagram. If a crime scene and a yoga class had a breakdown, it might look like this.

Sabrina was on top of him, straddling his hips with practiced ease. Her coat hung open just enough to reveal there was nothing beneath it but resignation and a sports bra. Her posture calm, thighs firm, expression caught somewhere between concentration and mild regret. A sage stick dangled from her lips like a post-coital cigarette. One hand was on his chest. The other traced lazy circles in the air.

She didn’t look up. She just breathed — slow, humid, practiced.

The air was humid. Intimate. Quiet — except for the faint bubbling of something organic and tomato-based.

Then the front door creaked open. A figure stepped inside. Froze. Saw everything.

Sabrina was shocked but she didn’t move. She just said calmly with a tinge of shame, "It’s not what it looks like"