Have a shower in the morning

The sleep hadn’t been good. Not really. The images from last night chased me through the dark — that black lace strap slipping into view when her hoodie fell off her shoulder, the way she’d caught me looking and smiled instead of hiding, the warm, easy way she’d offered to feed me like it was nothing. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the soft curve of her stomach when she stretched, the full heavy shape of her breasts under the cotton, the way her track pants hugged the thick line of her thighs. I’d woken up hard more than once and had to talk myself down like a teenager.

But the shower helped. Scalding hot water pounding the knots out of my shoulders, washing away the warehouse dust and some of the fog in my head. I stood under it longer than I needed to, forehead against the tiles, trying to get my thoughts in order.

I had a good thing going here. A housemate who paid rent reliably, who didn’t throw parties or bring chaos home, who I could actually talk to without it feeling like work. In Sydney that was rarer than a cheap flat. Most people your age were either flakes who disappeared when the rent was due or nightmares who made the house feel like enemy territory. Veronica was neither. She was easy. Comfortable. The kind of easy that made coming home after a twelve-hour shift feel less like punishment and more like… something I didn’t have a name for yet.

I couldn’t damage that. Not for a few lingering looks and the way my body reacted every time she moved in those baggy clothes that were supposed to hide how curvy she was. Not when this was my clearest path to being better off financially. One more shift this week — Friday night, the long brutal one — and then it was the weekend. I could use the time to properly hunt for that second job. Night fill, security, delivery, whatever it took to get the deposit together faster.

I kept a notebook on my phone with ideas for extra income. I opened it sometimes when the numbers on my bank app made my chest tight. Dropshipping random gadgets. Crypto trading with money I didn’t have. Starting some kind of content channel about warehouse life or fixing things. Selling old tools and clothes on Marketplace. They all felt unrealistic for one reason or another. I wasn’t the type who got lucky or went viral. I was the type who worked until his back gave out and hoped it was enough.

I stepped out of the bathroom with the towel low on my hips, skin still damp, and nearly walked straight into her.

Veronica was waiting in the narrow hallway, leaning against the opposite wall. She looked like she’d been up late — eyes a little puffy and soft, dark hair a messy cloud around her face, skin warm from bed. But the second she saw me her whole face lit up with that easy, crinkly-eyed smile that always hit me somewhere low in the gut.

“Morning,” she said, voice still husky from sleep or from hours of talking to chat. “Shower’s all yours now? Or was.”

“Yeah. All yours. Sorry if I took too long.”

She shook her head, still smiling, happy to see me even though she clearly hadn’t slept enough. “Nah, you’re good. I was up late anyway. Chat wanted to keep going after the stream ended. You know how it is.”

I didn’t, not really. But I nodded and stepped aside to let her pass.

She was in an old faded band t-shirt that was even baggier than her usual hoodies, slipping off one shoulder, and tiny sleep shorts that barely covered the tops of her thick thighs. The thin cotton of the shirt clung in places the way thin fabric does in the morning air — outlining the full, heavy curve of her breasts, the soft dip of her waist, the way her hips flared out. No bra. The cool hallway air had her nipples pressing against the fabric in two soft points that made it very, very hard to keep my eyes on her face. She looked sleepy and soft and entirely too touchable. Like if I reached out I could pull her in and she’d fit perfectly against my chest, all warm curves and vanilla scent and that low, easy laugh.

She didn’t tug the shirt closed or cross her arms. She just smiled up at me, small and bright despite the late night, like seeing me first thing in the morning was genuinely nice.

“I left a coffee for you downstairs,” she said as she slipped past me into the bathroom. Her arm brushed mine — warm, bare skin. “Figured you might need it after yesterday.”

Then the door clicked shut and the water started running, and I was standing in the hallway with my heart doing something stupid and complicated in my chest.

She’d left me coffee.

It was such a small thing. Thoughtful. Domestic. The kind of thing housemates did when they were being decent. But after last night — after I’d spent the evening trying and failing not to stare at the lace and the curves and the way she didn’t seem to mind being seen — it felt like more. It felt like she’d thought about me. Like she’d noticed I was tired and done something kind without being asked.

I got dressed quickly — clean work clothes, boots — and headed downstairs. The coffee was waiting on the kitchen counter in one of the good mugs, still steaming. She’d added just the right splash of milk. I’d only mentioned once, weeks ago, how I took it. She’d remembered.

I stood there staring at it for a long moment, phone in my hand, thumb hovering over the notes app where my list of side-hustle ideas sat mocking me. None of them felt real. None of them felt like this quiet, easy kindness that was slowly making the idea of grinding myself into the ground for a deposit feel a little lonelier than it used to.

I took a sip. It was perfect. Strong, warm, exactly right.

From upstairs came the sound of the shower running and, after a minute, Veronica singing softly to herself — off-key, cheerful, the kind of private little moment you only hear when someone thinks they’re alone. It made the house feel smaller. Warmer. Like a home instead of just a roof over two people splitting rent.

I drank the coffee she’d made for me and tried to focus on the practical things. One more shift. Then the weekend. Job hunt. Numbers. Deposit. Don’t complicate the only good living situation I’d had in years.

But as the water shut off upstairs and I heard her moving around, getting ready for her day, all I could think about was the way she’d smiled at me in the hallway — tired, happy to see me anyway — and the thin t-shirt that had done nothing to hide how soft and curvy she was underneath.

I had a problem.

And it was five foot nothing, built like every late-night thought I wasn’t supposed to be having, and currently getting dressed two rooms away after making me coffee because she’d noticed I needed it.

The numbers on my phone didn’t feel quite as urgent as they usually did.

The coffee sat warm between my hands while the house slowly woke up around me. I could still hear her moving upstairs — the soft pad of bare feet, a drawer opening, the faint rustle of clothes. Every small sound pulled at something low in my chest.

I had a choice to make about how the rest of this morning — and maybe the weekend — was going to go.