“Sorry if the hot water’s run out”

The steam curled around her like it didn’t want to let go. Veronica stood there in the narrow hallway, towel wrapped high but not high enough to hide the soft, full curve of her breasts or the way the terrycloth clung to the damp skin of her hips and thighs. Water droplets traced slow paths down her neck and disappeared between the swell of her chest. She looked small and soft and completely unbothered by how little she was wearing in front of me.

She must have seen something in my face — the tiredness, the way last night’s conversation was still sitting heavy and warm in my chest — because her smile turned gentle, almost shy for a second.

“Sorry if the hot water’s run out,” she said quietly. “I tried to be quick.”

I shook my head, voice rough. “You’re fine. Don’t worry about it.”

She shifted her weight, and the towel slipped a little lower on one side. She didn’t fix it. Just looked up at me with those open, caring eyes and kept talking like standing half-naked in the hallway after everything we’d said last night was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve been thinking,” she continued, softer now. “About what you told me at dinner. The deposit and the grind and how hard you’re pushing yourself. I… I’ve got some ideas. Ways that might actually help. Nothing crazy, just… stuff I know about.” She bit her lip for a second, then gave a small, hopeful smile. “I want to talk about it properly tonight. If you’re up for it. When you’re not wrecked from work.”

My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with money stress and everything to do with her. She’d been thinking about me. About my problems. Enough to come up with ideas. Enough to want to sit down and talk it through properly.

Before I could answer, she added, even quieter, “And… thank you again. For giving me the bigger bedroom when you moved in. And for taking me on as a housemate in the first place. I know it’s not always easy sharing space with someone, but you’ve made it feel easy. Safe. I don’t take that for granted.”

The words landed somewhere deep. She meant every single one of them. The gratitude in her voice was real, and it mixed with the steam and the towel and the memory of her fingers on my hand last night until I couldn’t tell where the emotional pull ended and the physical one began.

I swallowed. “You don’t have to thank me for that. You’re… easy to live with too. More than easy.”

Her smile widened, soft and warm and a little relieved. She reached out and gave my forearm a quick, gentle squeeze — skin still damp and warm from the shower — before stepping past me toward her room.

“Tonight, then,” she said over her shoulder, towel swaying with the movement of her hips. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be around.”

The door to her room clicked shut behind her, leaving me standing in the hallway with the steam still hanging in the air and my heart doing something stupid and complicated in my chest.

She wanted to help. She had ideas. She was grateful I’d taken her on as a housemate. And she wanted to talk about it all again tonight — properly.

The slow-burn tension that had been building for weeks suddenly felt a lot less slow.