Crave or Behave

Tasha woke sprawled across her mattress like she’d lost a bet. One leg bent, the other half-dangling, toes grazing cold hardwood. The sun sliced through the blinds in thin, unforgiving beams, lighting up the sweat-shine on her thigh, the mess of black eyeliner smudged at the corners of her eyes.

Her mouth tasted like vape and forgotten intentions. Her limbs ached like she’d danced for hours—which she hadn’t. Not last night.

The shirt she wore wasn’t hers. Navy blue, old, soft, and stretched—the kind of shirt that had clung to someone’s chest once, probably during sex, probably during sweatier months. It hung crooked on her, collar yawning wide, one bare shoulder exposed, nipple just shy of visible beneath a fall of hair. No bra. No panties. Just cotton, skin, and low-grade restlessness.

She stretched, back arching, arms long above her head until something popped. The hem of the shirt slid higher up her hips. She didn’t bother pulling it down.

The apartment was silent. Still.

She sat up and blinked toward the hallway. Dani’s door was closed. Had been for two weeks. Her roommate’s boots were still parked by the entryway, a half-empty iced coffee cup fossilizing on the TV stand beside a pack of tarot cards and a lighter Tasha didn’t remember buying.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen, the wood cool under her soles, shirt clinging damply to her lower back. The smell hit her first—coffee, faint weed smoke, a whisper of something sour from the fridge.

The kitchen counter was cluttered with empty mugs, an old takeout box, and a note in Dani’s handwriting: “Don’t open the freezer unless you want to deal with it.”
No date. Just it.

Tasha ignored it. She poured herself the last inch of yesterday’s coffee. Cold. Bitter. Exactly right.

Her phone buzzed—Mel: “u alive bitch?”

She didn’t reply. Not yet. She liked to let things steep.

The coffee warmed her tongue as she leaned against the counter, one foot lifted to rest against the cabinet. Her shirt hiked higher, exposing the underside of one ass cheek. Her nipples were stiff now, half from the chill, half from the tension coiled between her thighs. Not horniness, exactly—more like pressure.

She needed noise. She needed motion. Something to fuck with, someone to get under.

The silence of the apartment wrapped around her too tightly. It was the kind of silence that watched.

A picture frame on the hallway shelf hung crooked. Tasha had straightened it last week. Now it tilted left again. Not much. But enough.

There was a strange smell in the laundry room too—faint, chemical. She’d noticed it yesterday. Maybe bleach. Maybe not.

Her keyring sat on the entry table beside her vape. The key to the storage unit was missing. Had she loaned it out? She couldn’t remember.

The freezer hummed, quiet and constant.

Dani’s bedroom light was off. A shadow lay just beneath the doorframe. Not a person. Probably.

Tasha finished her coffee in one slow sip. Set the mug in the sink.

She looked down at herself—bare legs, oversized shirt, hair like a feral halo—and smiled.

Today needed something. A spark. A spark or a scream.

Either would do.