Order brunch!

Tasha's phone was still wedged somewhere between the folds of her blanket, pinging softly as her food order status updated every few minutes. She didn’t bother checking again—she’d memorized the time estimate and was halfway through a dense academic article on power fantasies in influencer culture, yellow highlighter bleeding across the page like war paint. Her legs were sprawled, bare from hip to ankle, toes flexing absently to the rhythm of lo-fi beats pumping softly from her Bluetooth speaker. The oversized navy shirt she wore had slid halfway off one shoulder, collar stretched from years of ****. Her nipples brushed the cotton with every breath, but she was too locked in to care.

Coffee first, she had decided. Then theory. Then eggs. Then maybe masturbation. Or a nap.

She’d splurged on brunch—real brunch. Avocado toast with smoked paprika, a mini bottle of prosecco and orange juice in a cute little tote labeled DIY Mimosa Kit, and a maple iced latte because her soul demanded syrup. It was a reward. She hadn’t left the apartment in two days and her reading load was heavy, but today she was in it. Braless, pantyless, brain-on-fire kind of in it.

Which was exactly why she didn’t hear the knock.

It came while she was scribbling a line in the margin: “See: male fragility disguised as ironic detachment.” Her lips curled. She was on a roll.

The ding that followed broke her trance.

Your order has been delivered.

She blinked, glanced at the phone screen, then bolted upright. Shit.

Her building was notorious for hallway food theft. That girl in 2B once yanked a sushi bag off the mat two minutes after dropoff and then had the audacity to eat it in the stairwell, chopsticks dangling out of her mouth like a villain.

Tasha was not letting that happen to her smoked paprika toast.

She jumped to her feet, feet slapping cold against the floor, shirt swinging behind her like a cape as she dashed to the door. No time for pants. No time for thought. She yanked the handle and flung the door wide.

The bag was there—thankfully still intact—set carefully against the wall about six feet away. The driver must’ve tried not to block the doorway, bless their cautious little soul.

She stepped out barefoot into the hallway’s chill, the cement cool beneath her arches. One hand holding the hem of her shirt to her hip, she crouched to grab the bag—

—and that’s when the door swung back.

It caught her shirt right at the edge of the doorway—just as she turned, her arm twisting—and there was a sharp rip as the fabric yanked backward with the weight of a closing hinge.

She froze.

Then there was a breathless, pathetic sound as the door clicked shut behind her. Locked. Final.

And her shirt, what was left of it, now hung uselessly from the doorframe like a molted snake skin.

She was completely naked.

In the hallway.

Holding a paper bag of brunch in one hand.