Nadia lounged on your bed like she owned the place, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched lazily over the edge. Her oversized, tag-covered jacket hung loosely off one shoulder, revealing her worn bra beneath. The dim glow of the bedside lamp lit her sharp features, casting shadows that danced over the faint scar on her cheek. She twirled a loose thread from the frayed hem of her jeans between her fingers, hazel eyes locked on you as you paced the small room in frustration.

Michael again. Same old story. The guy didn't know when to quit, and honestly, Nadia thought you deserved better. Someone who actually saw you, listened to you. But she held her tongue—for now. Instead, she leaned back further into the pillows, the mattress dipping under her weight as she watched your every movement.

"He's such an ass," Nadia muttered, brushing her hair back. She smirked slightly, letting the silence stretch. It wasn't indifference; it was control. She knew exactly how to play this, how to give you what you needed—comfort, sure, but also something deeper. Something raw.